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HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY, 

Boston  and  New  York. 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDKICH 


THE 

STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 


CoPTBiaHT,  1869, 1877,  and  1897, 
By  THOMAS  BAILEY  AIDRICH. 


CONTENTS. 

Chapter  Paob 

I.  In  which  I  INTRODUCB  Myself  7 

II.  In  which  I  ENTERTAIN  PECULIAR  ViEWS     ...  11 

III.  On  board  the  Typhoon  .  18 

IV.  Kivermouth  •      .  28 

V.  The  Nutter  House  and  the  Nutter  Family     .      .  40 

VI.  Lights  and  Shadows  52 

Vn.  One  Memorable  Night  72 

VIII.  The  Adventures  of  a  Fourth  86 

IX.  I  BECOME  AN  R.  M.  G.       .      .       •      .       .       .  .98 

X.  I  fight  Conway  ,      ,  107 

XI.  All  ABOUT  Gypsy  118 

XII.  Winter  at  Rivermouth  127 

XIII.  The  Snow  Fort  on  Slatter's  Hill      .      .      .  .134 

XIV  The  Cruise  of  the  Dolphin      .....  146 

XV.  An  Old  Acquaintance  turns  up  166 

XVI.  In  which  Sailor  Ben  spins  a  Yarn  .     •     •     •  179 


IV  CONTENTS. 

XVII.  How  WE  ASTONISHED  THE  RiVERMOUTHIANS         .        .  192 

XVIII.  A  Frog  he  would  a-wooinq  go     ...      .  210 

XIX.  I  BECOME  A  Blighted  Being       .....  226 

XX.  In  which  I  prove  myself  to  be  the  Grandson  of 

MY  Grandfather   233 

XXI.  In  which  I  leave  Rivermouth      ....  251 

XXII.  Exeunt  Omnbs   267 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTEATIONS. 

The  Snow  Fort  on  Slatter's  Hill  .      .      .     ,  Frontiipiece 

Little  Black  Sam  Page  12 

Sailor  Ben  ,      .      .      ,  25 

A  Friendly  Offer   30 

The  Nutter  House  =42 

I  PERFORM  MY  GrEAT  FeAT   66 

The  Burning  of  the  old  Stage-Coach   80 

Sold  !   95 

The  Centipedes   101 

Prince  Zany  takes  a  Ride   123 

Tom  Bailey's  Composition   125 

Plan  of  Fort  Slatter   .      .      »   138 

Drifting  Away   165 

The  Recognition   176 

Sailor  Ben  and  the  Land-Shark   183 

The  Old  Sogers   206 

A  Cherub       ...........  230 

Pepper  Whitcomb  remonstrates   231 

Singular  Conduct  of  Sailor  Ben   241 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


CHAPTEK  I. 


IN  WHICH  I  INTRODUCE  MYSELF. 


HIS  is  the  story  of  a  bad  boy. 
Well,  not  such  a  very  bad, 
but  a  pretty  bad  boy ;  and  I 
ought  to  know,  for  I  am,  or 
rather  I  was,  that  boy  my- 
self. 

Lest  the  title  should  mis- 
lead the  reader,  I  hasten  to 
assure  him  here  that  I  have 
no  dark  confessions  to  make. 
I  call  my  story  the  story  of 
a  bad  boy,  partly  to  distin- 
guish myself  from  those 
faultless  young  gentlemen 
who  generally  figure  in  nar- 
ratives of  this  kind,  and 
partly  because  I  really  was 
~  not  a  cherub.    I  may  truth- 

fully say  T  was  an  amiable,  impulsive  lad,  blessed 
with  fine  digestive  powers,  and  no  hypocrite.  I 


8 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


did  n't  want  to  be  an  angel  and  with  the  angels 
stand;  I  did  n't  think  the  missionary  tracts  pre- 
sented  to  me  by  the  Eev.  Wibird  Hawkins  were  half 
so  nice  as  Eobinson  Crusoe ;  and  I  did  n't  send  my 
little  pocket-money  to  the  natives  of  the  Feejee  Isl- 
ands, but  spent  it  royally  in  peppermint-drops  and 
taffy  candy.  In  short,  I  was  a  real  human  boy,  such 
as  you  may  meet  anywhere  in  New  England,  and  no 
more  like  the  impossible  boy  in  a  story-book  than  a 
sound  orange  is  like  one  that  has  been  sucked  dry. 
But  let  us  begin  at  the  beginning. 

"Whenever  a  new  scholar  came  to  our  school,  I  used 
to  confront  him  at  recess  with  the  following  words  : 
"  My  name 's  Tom  Bailey ;  what 's  your  name  ? "  If 
the  name  struck  me  favorably,  I  shook  hands  with  the 
new  pupil  cordially ;  but  if  it  did  n't,  I  would  turn 
on  my  heel,  for  I  was  particular  on  this  point.  Such 
names  as  Higgins,  Wiggins,  and  Spriggins  were  deadly 
affronts  to  my  ear ;  while  Langdon,  Wallace,  Blake, 
and  the  like,  were  passwords  to  my  confidence  and 
esteem. 

Ah  me !  some  of  those  dear  feUows  are  rather 
elderly  boys  by  this  time,  —  lawyers,  merchants,  sea- 
captains,  soldiers,  authors,  what  not  ?  Phil  Adams 
(a  special  good  name  that  Adams)  is  consul  at  Shang- 
hai, where  I  picture  him  to  myself  with  his  head 
closely  shaved,  —  he  never  had  too  much  hair,  —  and 
a  long  pigtail  hanging  down  behind.  He  is  married, 
I  hear ;  and  I  hope  he  and  she  that  was  Miss  Wang 
Wang  are  very  happy  together,  sitting  cross-legged 


IN  WHICH  I  INTRODUCE  MYSELF. 


9 


over  their  diminutive  cups  of  tea  in  a  sky-blue  tower 
hung  with  bells.  It  is  so  I  think  of  him ;  to  me  he 
is  henceforth  a  jewelled  mandarin,  talking  nothing 
but  broken  China.  Whitcomb  is  a  judge,  sedate  and 
wise,  with  spectacles  balanced  on  the  bridge  of  that 
remarkable  nose  which,  in  former  days,  was  so  plenti- 
fully sprinkled  with  freckles  that  the  boys  christened 
him  Pepper  Whitcomb.  Just  to  think  of  little  Pep- 
per Whitcomb  being  a  judge  !  What  would  he  do  to 
me  now,  I  wonder,  if  I  were  to  sing  out  "  Pepper  ! " 
some  day  in  court  ?  Fred  Langdon  is  in  California, 
in  the  native-wine  business,  —  he  used  to  make  the 
best  licorice- water  /  ever  tasted  !  Binny  Wallace 
sleeps  in  the  Old  South  Burying-Ground ;  and  Jack 
Harris,  too,  is  dead,  —  Harris,  who  commanded  us 
boys,  of  old,  in  the  famous  snow-ball  battles  of  Slat- 
ter's  Hill.  Was  it  yesterday  I  saw  him  at  the  head 
of  his  regiment  on  its  way  to  join  the  shattered  Army 
of  the  Potomac  ?  ISTot  yesterday,  but  six  years  ago. 
It  was  at  the  battle  of  the  Seven  Pines.  Gallant 
Jack  Harris,  that  never  drew  rein  until  he  had 
dashed  into  the  Eebel  battery  !  So  they  found  him, 
—  lying  across  the  enemy's  guns. 

How  we  have  parted,  and  wandered,  and  married, 
and  died !  I  wonder  what  has  become  of  aU  the  boys 
who  went  to  the  Temple  Grammar  School  at  Eiver- 
mouth  when  I  was  a  youngster  ? 

"  All,  all  arc  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces  I " 

It  is  with  no  ungentle  hand  I  summon  them  back, 
1  f 


10 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


for  a  moment,  from  that  Past  which  has  closed  upon 
them  and  upon  me.  How  pleasantly  they  live  again 
in  my  memory !  Happy,  magical  Past,  in  whose  fairy 
atmosphere  even  Conway,  mine  ancient  foe,  stands 
forth  transfigured,  with  a  sort  of  dreamy  glory  encir- 
cling his  bright  red  hair ! 

With  the  old  school  formula  I  commence  these 
sketches  of  my  boyhood.  My  name  is  Tom  Bailey ; 
what  is  yours,  gentle  reader  ?  I  take  for  granted  it 
is  neither  Wiggins  nor  Spriggins,  and  that  we  shall 
get  on  famously  together,  and  be  capital  friends  for- 
ever. 


IN  WHICH  I  ENTERTAIN  PECULIAR  VIEWS.  11 


CHAPTEE  II. 

IN  WHICH  I  ENTERTAIN  PECULIAR  VIEWS. 

WAS  born  at  Eivermouth, 
but,  before  I  had  a  chance 
to  become  very  well  ac- 
quainted with  that  pretty 
'New  England  town,  my 
parents  removed  to  New 
Orleans,  where  my  father 
invested  his  money  so  se- 
curely in  the  banking  busi- 
ness that  he  was  never  able 
to  get  any  of  it  out  again. 
But  of  this  hereafter. 

I  was  only  eighteen 
months  old  at  the  time  of 
the  removal,  and  it  did  n't 
make  much  difference  to 
me  where  I  was,  because  I 
was  so  small;  but  several 
years  later,  when  my  father 
proposed  to  take  me  North  to  be  educated,  I  had  my 
own  peculiar  views  on  the  subject.  I  instantly  kicked 
over  the  little  negro  boy  who  happened  to  be  stand- 
ing by  me  at  the  moment,  and,  stamping  my  foot 


12  THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


violently  on  the  floor  of  the  piazza,  declared  that  I 
would  not  be  taken  away  to  live  among  a  lot  of 
Yankees ! 


LITTLE  BLACK  SAM. 


You  see  I  was  what  is  called  "a  Northern  man 
with  Southern  principles."  I  had  no  recollection  of 
New  England  :  my  earliest  memories  were  connected 
with  the  South,  with  Aunt  Chloe,  my  old  negro  nurse, 
Piid  with  the  great  ill-kept  garden  in  the  centre  of 
which  stood  our  house,  —  a  whitewashed  stone  house 

was,  with  wide  verandas^  —  shut  out  from  the 


m  WHICH  I  ENTERTAIN  PECULIAR  VIEWS.  13 

street  by  lines  of  orange,  fig,  and  magnolia  trees.  I 
knew  I  was  born  at  the  North,  but  hoped  nobody 
would  find  it  out.  I  looked  upon  the  misfortune  as 
something  so  shrouded  by  time  and  distance  that 
maybe  nobody  remembered  it.  I  never  told  my  school- 
mates I  was  a  Yankee,  because  they  talked  about  the 
Yankees  in  such  a  scornful  way  it  made  me  feel  that 
it  was  quite  a  disgrace  not  to  be  born  in  Louisiana,  or 
at  least  in  one  of  the  Border  States.  And  this  im- 
pression was  strengthened  by  Aunt  Chloe,  who  said, 
"  dar  was  n't  no  gentl'men  in  the  IN'orf  no  way,"  and 
on  one  occasion  terrified  me  beyond  measure  by  de- 
claring that,  "  if  any  of  dem  mean  whites  tried  to  git 
her  away  from  marster,  she  was  jes'  gwine  to  knock 
'em  on  de  head  wid  a  gourd  ! " 

The  way  this  poor  creature's  eyes  flashed,  and  the 
tragic  air  with  which  she  struck  at  an  imaginary 
"mean  white,"  are  among  the  most  vivid  things  in 
my  memory  of  those  days. 

To  be  frank,  my  idea  of  the  North  was  about  as 
accurate  as  that  entertained  by  the  well-educated 
Englishmen  of  the  present  day  concerning  America. 
I  supposed  the  inhabitants  were  divided  into  two 
classes,  —  Indians  and  white  people  ;  that  the  Indians 
occasionally  dashed  down  on  New  York,  and  scalped 
any  woman  or  child  (giving  the  preference  to  chil- 
dren) whom  they  caught  lingering  in  the  outskirts 
after  nightfall ;  that  the  white  men  were  either  hunt- 
ers or  schoolmasters,  and  that  it  was  winter  pretty 
much  all  the  year  round.  The  prevailing  style  of 
architecture  I  took  to  be  log -cabins. 


14 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


With  this  delightful  picture  of  Northern  civiliza- 
tion in  my  eye,  the  reader  will  easily  understand  my 
terror  at  the  bare  thought  of  being  transported  to 
Eivermouth  to  school,  and  possibly  will  forgive  me 
for  kicking  over  little  black  Sam,  and  otherwise  mis- 
conducting myself,  when  my  father  announced  his 
determination  to  me.  As  for  kicking  little  Sam,  —  I 
always  did  that,  more  or  less  gently,  when  anything 
went  wrong  with  me. 

My  father  was  greatly  perplexed  and  troubled  by 
this  unusually  violent  outbreak,  and  especially  by  the 
real  consternation  which  he  saw  written  in  every  line 
of  my  countenance.  As  little  black  Sam  picked  him- 
self up,  my  father  took  my  hand  in  his  and  led  me 
thoughtfully  to  the  library. 

I  can  see  him  now  as  he  leaned  back  in  the  bam- 
boo chair  and  questioned  me.  He  appeared  strangely 
agitated  on  learning  the  nature  of  my  objections  to 
going  North,  and  proceeded  at  once  to  knock  down  all 
my  pine-log  houses,  and  scatter  all  the  Indian  tribes 
with  which  I  had  populated  the  greater  portion  of  the 
Eastern  and  Middle  States. 

"  Who  on  earth,  Tom,  has  filled  your  brain  with 
such  silly  stories  ? "  asked  my  father,  wiping  the  tears 
from  his  eyes.  • 

"  Aunt  Chloe,  sir ;  she  told  me." 

"  And  you  really  thought  your  grandfather  wore  a 
blanket  embroidered  with  beads,  and  ornamented  his 
leggins  with  the  scalps  of  his  enemies  ?  " 

"Well,  sir,  I  did  n't  think  that  exactly." 


IN  WHICH  I  ENTERTAIN  PECULIAR  VIEWS.  15 

"  Did  n't  think  that  exactly  ?  Tom,  you  will  be 
the  death  of  me." 

He  hid  his  face  in  his  handkerchief,  and,  when  he 
looked  up,  he  seemed  to  have  been  suffering  acutely. 
I  was  deeply  moved  myself,  though  I  did  not  clearly 
understand  what  I  had  said  or  done  to  cause  him  to 
feel  so  badly.  Perhaps  I  had  hurt  his  feelings  by 
thinking  it  even  possible  that  Grandfather  Nutter 
was  an  Indian  warrior. 

My  father  devoted  that  evening  and  several  subse^ 
quent  evenings  to  giving  me  a  clear  and  succinct  ac- 
count  of  New  England ;  its  early  struggles,  its  pro- 
gress, and  its  present  condition,  —  faint  and  confused 
glimmerings  of  all  which  I  had  obtained  at  school, 
where  history  had  never  been  a  favorite  pursuit  of 
mine. 

I  was  no  longer  unwilling  to  go  North ;  on  the 
contrary,  the  proposed  journey  to  a  new  world 
full  of  wonders  kept  me  awake  nights.  I  promised 
myself  all  sorts  of  fun  and  adventures,  though  I 
was  not  entirely  at  rest  in  my  mind  touching  the 
savages,  and  secretly  resolved  to  go  on  board  the 
ship  —  the  journey  was  to  be  made  by  sea  —  with  a 
certain  little  brass  pistol  in  my  trousers-pocket,  in 
case  of  any  difiiculty  with  the  tribes  when  we  landed 
at  Boston. 

I  could  n't  get  the  Indian  out  of  my  head.  Only 
a  short  time  previously  the  Cherokees  —  or  was  it 
the  Camanches  ?  —  had  been  removed  from  their 
hunting-grounds  in  Arkansas ;  and  in  the  wilds  of 


16 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


the  Southwest  the  red  men  were  still  a  source  of  ter- 
ror to  the  border  settlers.  "Trouble  with  the  In- 
dians" was  the  staple  news  from  Florida  published 
in  the  New  Orleans  papers.  We  were  constantly 
hearing  of  travellers  being  attacked  and  murdered  in 
the  interior  of  that  State.  If  these  things  were 
done  in  Florida,  why  not  in  Massachusetts  ? 

Yet  long  before  the  sailing  day  arrived  I  was  eager 
to  be  off.  My  impatience  was  increased  by  the  fact 
ihat  my  father  had  purchased  for  me  a  fine  little 
Mustang  pony,  and  shipped  it  to  Eivermouth  a  fort- 
night previous  to  the  date  set  for  our  own  departure, — 
for  both  my  parents  were  to  accompany  me.  The 
pony  (which  nearly  kicked  me  out  of  bed  one  night 
in  a  dream),  and  my  father's  promise  that  he  and  my 
mother  would  come  to  Rivermouth  every  other  sum- 
mer, completely  resigned  me  to  the  situation.  The 
pony's  name  was  Gitanay  which  is  the  Spanish  for 
gypsy ;  so  I  always  called  her  —  she  was  a  lady 
pony  — Gypsy. 

At  length  the  time  came  to  leave  the  vine-covered 
mansion  among  the  orange-trees,  to  say  good  by  to 
little  black  Sam  (I  am  convinced  he  was  heartily  glad 
to  get  rid  of  me),  and  to  part  with  simple  Aunt  Chloe, 
who,  in  the  confusion  of  her  grief,  kissed  an  eyelash 
into  my  eye,  and  then  buried  her  face  in  the  bright 
bandana  turban  which  she  had  mounted  that  morning 
in  honor  of  our  departure. 

I  fancy  them  standing  by  the  open  garden  gate; 
the  tears  are  rolling  down  Aunt  Chloe's  cheeks; 


IN  WHICH  I  ENTERTAIN  PECULIAR  VIEWS.  I'J' 

Sam's  six  front  teeth  are  glistening  like  pearls ;  I 
wave  my  hand  to  him  manfully,  then  I  call  out 
"good  by"  in  a  muffled  voice  to  Aunt  Chloe  ;  they 
and  the  old  home  fade  away.  I  am  never  to  see 
them  again ! 


18  THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


CHAPTEE  III. 

ON  BOARD  THE  TYPHOON. 

DO  not  remember  much 
about  the  voyage  to  Boston, 
for  after  the  first  few  hours 
at  sea  I  was  dreadfully  un- 
well. 

The  name  of  our  ship 
was  the  "  A  No.  1,  fast-sail- 
ing packet  Typhoon."  I 
learned  afterwards  that  she 
sailed  fast  only  in  the  news- 
paper advertisements.  My 
father  owned  one  quarter 
of  the  Typhoon,  and  that 
is  why  we  happened  to  go 
in  her.  I  tried  to  guess 
which  quarter  of  the  ship 
he  owned,  and  finally  con- 
cluded it  must  be  the  hind 
quarter,  — ■  the  cabin,  in 
which  we  had  the  cosiest  of  state-rooms,  with  one 
round  window  in  the  roof,  and  two  shelves  or  boxes 
nailed  up  against  the  wall  to  sleep  in. 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  confusion  on  deck  while 


ON  BOARD  THE  TYPHOON. 


19 


we  were  getting  under  way.  The  captain  shouted, 
orders  (to  which  nobody  seemed  to  pay  any  attention) 
through  a  battered  tin  trumpet,  and  grew  so  red  in 
the  face  that  he  reminded  me  of  a  scooped-out  pump- 
kin with  a  lighted  candle  inside.  He  swore  right  and 
left  at  the  sailors  without  the  slightest  regard  for 
their  feelings.  They  did  n't  mind  it  a  bit,  however^ 
but  went  on  singing,  — 

"  Heave  ho ! 
With  the  rum  below, 
And  hurrah  for  the  Spanish  Main  0  !  " 

I  will  not  be  positive  about  "  the  Spanish  Main,"  but 
it  was  hurrah  for  something  0.  I  considered  them 
very  jolly  fellows,  and  so  indeed  they  were.  One 
weather-beaten  tar  in  particular  struck  my  fancy,  — 
a  thick-set,  jovial  man,  about  fifty  years  of  age,  with 
twinkling  blue  eyes  and  a  fringe  of  gray  hair  circling 
his  head  like  a  crown.  As  he  took  off  his  tarpaulin 
I  observed  that  the  top  of  his  head  was  quite  smooth 
and  flat,  as  if  somebody  had  sat  down  on  him  when 
he  was  very  young. 

There  was  something  noticeably  hearty  in  this 
man's  bronzed  face,  a  heartiness  that  seemed  to  ex- 
tend to  his  loosely  knotted  neckerchief.  But  what 
completely  won  my  good-will  was  a  picture  of  envi- 
able loveliness  painted  on  his  left  arm.  It  was  the 
head  of  a  woman  with  the  body  of  a  fish.  Her  flow- 
ing hair  was  of  livid  green,  and  she  held  a  pink  comb 
in  one  hand.  I  never  saw  anything  so  beautiful,  I 
determined  to  know  that  man.    I  think  I  would  have 


20 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


given  my  brass  pistol  to  have  had  such  a  picture 
painted  on  my  arm. 

While  I  stood  admiring  this  work  of  art,  a  fat 
wheezy  steam-tug,  with  the  word  AJAX  in  staring 
black  letters  on  the  paddle-box,  came  puffing  up 
alongside  the  Typhoon.  It  was  ridiculously  small 
and  conceited,  compared  with  our  stately  ship.  I 
speculated  as  to  what  it  was  going  to  do.  In  a  few 
minutes  we  were  lashed  to  the  little  monster,  which 
gave  a  snort  and  a  shriek,  and  commenced  backing 
us  out  from  the  levee  (wharf)  with  the  greatest  ease. 

I  once  saw  an  ant  running  away  with  a  piece  of 
cheese  eight  or  ten  times  larger  tlmn  itseK.  I  could 
not  help  thinking  of  it,  when  I  found  the  chubby, 
smoky-nosed  tug-boat  towing  the  Typhoon  out  into 
the  Mississippi  River. 

In  the  middle  of  the  stream  we  swung  round,  the 
current  caught  us,  and  away  we  flew  like  a  great 
winged  bird.  Only  it  did  n't  seem  as  if  we  were  mov- 
ing. The  shore,  with  the  countless  steamboats,  the 
tangled  rigging  of  the  ships,  and  the  long  lines  of 
warehouses,  appeared  to  be  gliding  away  from  us. 

It  was  grand  sport  to  stand  on  the  quarter-deck 
and  watch  all  this.  Before  long  there  was  nothing 
to  be  seen  on  either  side  but  stretches  of  low  swampy 
land,  covered  with  stunted  cypress-trees,  from  which 
drooped  delicate  streamers  of  Spanish  moss,  —  a  fine 
place  for  alligators  and  congo  snakes.  Here  and  there 
we  passed  a  yeUow  sand-bar,  and  here  and  there  a 
snag  lifted  its  nose  out  of  the  water  like  a  shark. 


ON  BOARD  THE  TYPHOON. 


21 


"  This  is  your  last  chance  to  see  the  city,  Tom," 
said  my  father,  as  we  swept  round  a  bend  of  the 
river. 

I  turned  and  looked.  New  Orleans  was  just  a 
colorless  mass  of  something^  in  the  distance,  and  the 
dome  of  the  St.  Charles  Hotel,  upon  which  the  sun 
shimmered  for  a  moment,  was  no  bigger  than  the  top 
of  old  Aunt  Chloe's  thimble. 

What  do  I  remember  next  ?  the  gray  sky  and  the 
fretful  blue  waters  of  the  Gulf.  The  steam-tug  had 
long  since  let  slip  her  hawsers  and  gone  panting  away 
with  a  derisive  scream,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  I  Ve  done 
my  duty,  now  look  out  for  yourself,  old  Typhoon  ! " 

The  ship  seemed  quite  proud  of  being  left  to  take 
care  of  itself,  and,  with  its  huge  white  sails  bulged 
out,  strutted  off  like  a  vain  turkey.  I  had  been 
standing  by  my  father  near  the  wheel-house  all  this 
while,  observing  things  with  that  nicety  of  perception 
which  belongs  only  to  children;  but  now  the  dew 
began  falling,  and  we  went  below  to  have  supper. 

The  fresh  fruit  and  milk,  and  the  slices  of  cold 
chicken,  looked  very  nice ;  yet  somehow  I  had  no 
appetite.  There  was  a  general  smell  of  tar  about 
everything.  Then  the  ship  gave  sudden  lurches  that 
made  it  a  matter  of  uncertainty  whether  one  was 
going  to  put  his  fork  to  his  mouth  or  into  his  eye. 
The  tumblers  and  wineglasses,  stuck  in  a  rack  over 
the  table,  kept  clinking  and  clinking ;  and  the  cabin 
lamp,  suspended  by  four  gilt  chains  from  the  ceilmg, 
swayed  to  and  fro  crazily.    Now  the  floor  seemed  to 


22 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


rise,  and  now  it  seemed  to  sink  under  one's  feet  like 
a  feather-bed. 

There  were  not  more  than  a  dozen  passengers  on 
board,  including  ourselves ;  and  all  of  these,  except- 
ing a  bald-headed  old  gentleman,  —  a  retired  sea-cap- 
tain, —  disappeared  into  their  state-rooms  at  an  early 
hour  of  the  evening. 

After  supper  was  cleared  away,  my  father  and  the 
elderly  gentleman,  whose  name  was  Captain  Truck, 
played  at  checkers ;  and  I  amused  myself  for  a  while 
by  watching  the  trouble  they  had  in  keeping  the  men 
in  the  proper  places.  Just  at  the  most  exciting  point 
of  the  game,  the  ship  would  careen,  and  down  would 
go  the  white  checkers  pell-mell  among  the  black. 
Then  my  father  laughed,  but  Captain  Truck  would 
grow  very  angry,  and  vow  that  he  would  have  won 
the  game  in  a  move  or  two  more,  if  the  confounded 
old  chicken-coop  —  that 's  what  he  called  the  ship  — 
had  n't  lurched. 

"I  —  I  think  I  will  go  to  bed  now,  please,"  I  said, 
laying  my  hand  on  my  father's  knee,  and  feeling  ex- 
ceedingly queer. 

It  was  high  time,  for  the  Typhoon  was  plunging 
about  in  the  most  alarming  fashion.  I  was  speedily 
tucked  away  in  the  upper  berth,  where  I  felt  a  trifle 
more  easy  at  first.  My  clothes  were  placed  on  a  nar- 
row shelf  at  my  feet,  and  it  was  a  great  comfort  to  me 
to  know  that  my  pistol  was  so  handy,  for  I  made  no 
doubt  we  should  fall  in  with  Pirates  before  many 
hours.    This  is  the  last  thing  I  remember  with  any 


ON  BOARD  THE  TYPHOOH. 


23 


distinctness.  At  midnight,  as  I  was  afterwards  told, 
we  were  struck  by  a  gale  which  never  left  us  until 
we  came  in  sight  of  the  Massachusetts  coast. 

For  days  and  days  I  had  no  sensible  idea  of  what 
was  going  on  around  me.  That  we  were  being  hurled 
somewhere  upside-down,  and  that  I  did  n't  like  it, 
was  about  aU  I  knew.  I  have,  indeed,  a  vague  im- 
pression that  my  father  used  to  climb  up  to  the  berth 
and  call  me  his  "  Ancient  Mariner,"  bidding  me  cheer 
up.  But  the  Ancient  Mariner  was  far  from  cheering 
up,  if  I  recollect  rightly;  and  I  don't  believe  that 
venerable  navigator  would  have  cared  much  if  it  had 
been  announced  to  him,  through  a  speaking-trumpet, 
that  "  a  low,  black,  suspicious  craft,  with  raking  masts, 
was  rapidly  bearing  down  upon  us  ! " 

In  fact,  one  morning,  I  thought  that  such  was  the 
case,  for  bang !  went  the  big  cannon  I  had  noticed 
in  the  bow  of  the  ship  when  we  came  on  board, 
and  which  had  suggested  to  me  the  idea  of  pirates. 
Bang  !  went  the  gun  again  in  a  few  seconds.  I  made 
a  feeble  effort  to  get  at  my  trousers-pocket !  But  the 
Typhoon  was  only  saluting  Cape  Cod, — the  first  land 
sighted  by  vessels  approaching  the  coast  from  a  south- 
erly direction. 

The  vessel  had  ceased  to  roll,  and  my  sea-sickness 
passed  away  as  rapidly  as  it  came.  I  was  all  right 
now,  "  only  a  little  shaky  in  my  timbers  and  a  little 
blue  about  the  gills,"  as  Captain  Truck  remarked  to 
my  mother,  who,  like  myseK,  had  been  confined  to 
the  state-room  during  the  passage. 


24 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


At  Cape  Cod  the  wind  parted  company  with  us 
without  saying  as  much  as  "  Excuse  me  "  ;  so  we  were 
nearly  two  days  in  making  the  run  which  in  favor- 
able weather  is  usually  accomplished  in  seven  hours. 
That 's  what  the  pilot  said. 

I  was  able  to  go  about  the  ship  now,  and  I  lost  no 
time  in  cultivating  the  acquaintance  of  the  sailor 
with  the  green-haired  lady  on  his  arm.  I  found 
him  in  the  forecastle,  —  a  sort  of  cellar  in  the  front 
part  of  the  vessel.  He  was  an  agreeable  sailor,  as  1 
had  expected,  and  w^e  became  the  best  of  friends  in 
five  minutes. 

He  had  been  all  over  the  world  two  or  three  times, 
and  knew  no  end  of  stories.  According  to  his  own 
account,  he  must  have  been  shipwecked  at  least 
twice  a  year  ever  since  his  birth.  He  had  served 
under  Decatur  when  that  gallant  officer  peppered  the 
Algerines  and  made  them  promise  not  to  sell  their 
prisoners  of  war  into  slavery ;  he  had  worked  a  gun 
at  the  bombardment  of  Vera  Cruz  in  the  Mexican 
War,  and  he  had  been  on  Alexander  Selkirk's  Island 
more  than  once.  There  were  very  few  things  he 
had  n't  done  in  a  seafaring  way. 

"  I  suppose,  sir,"  I  remarked,  "  that  your  name  is  n't 
Typhoon  ?" 

"  Why,  Lord  love  ye,  lad,  my  name 's  Benjamin 
Watson,  of  N"antucket.  But  I 'm  a  true  blue  Ty- 
phooner,"  he  added,  which  increased  my  respect  foi 
him;  I  don't  know  why,  and  I  did  n't  know  then 
whether  Typhoon  was  the  name  of  a  vegetable  or  a 
profession. 


ON  BOARD  THE  TYPHOON. 


25 


Not  wishing  to  be  outdone  in  frankness,  I  dis- 
closed to  him  that  my  name  was  Tom  Bailey,  upon 
which  he  said  he  was  very  glad  to  hear  it. 


SAILOR  BEN. 

When  we  got  more  intimate,  I  discovered  that  Sai- 
lor  Ben,  as  he  wished  me  to  call  him,  was  a  perfect 
walking  picture-book.  He  had  two  anchors,  a  star, 
and  a  frigate  in  full  sail  on  his  right  arm ;  a  pair  of 

2 


26 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


lovely  blue  hands  clasped  on  his  breast,  and  I 've  no 
doubt  that  other  parts  of  his  body  were  illustrated 
in  the  same  agreeable  manner.  I  imagine  he  was 
fond  of  drawings,  and  took  this  means  of  gratifying 
his  artistic  taste.  It  was  certainly  very  ingenious 
and  convenient.  A  portfolio  might  be  misplaced,  or 
dropped  overboard ;  but  Sailor  Ben  had  his  pictures 
wherever  he  went,  just  as  that  eminent  person  in  the 
poem 

"  With  rings  on  her  fingers  and  bells  on  her  toes  "  — 

was  accompanied  by  music  on  all  occasions. 

The  two  hands  on  his  breast,  he  informed  me,  were 
a  tribute  to  the  memory  of  a  dead  messmate  from 
whom  he  had  parted  years  ago,  —  and  surely  a  more 
touching  tribute  was  never  engraved  on  a  tombstone. 
This  caused  me  to  think  of  my  parting  with  old 
Aunt  Chloe,  and  I  told  him  I  should  take  it  as  a 
great  favor  indeed  if  he  would  paint  a  pink  hand  and 
a  black  hand  on  my  chest.  He  said  the  colors  were 
pricked  into  the  skin  with  needles,  and  that  the 
operation  was  somewhat  painful.  I  assured  him,  in 
an  off-hand  manner,  that  I  did  n't  mind  pain,  and 
begged  him  to  set  to  work  at  once. 

The  simple-hearted  fellow,  who  was  probably  not 
a  little  vain  of  his  skill,  took  me  into  the  forecastle, 
and  was  on  the  point  of  complying  with  my  request, 
when  my  father  happened  to  look  down  the  gangway, 
- — a  circumstance  that  rather  interfered  with  the 
deoorative  art. 


ON  BOARD  THE  TYPHOON. 


27 


I  did  n't  have  another  opportunity  of  conferring 
alone  with  Sailor  Ben,  for  the  next  morning,  bright 
and  early,  we  came  in  sight  of  the  cupola  of  the 
Boston  State  House. 


28 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


CHAPTER  IV 


RIVERMOUTH. 


T  was  a  beautiful  May 
morning  when  the  Ty- 
phoon hauled  up  at  Long 
Wharf.  Whether  the  In- 
dians were  not  early  risers, 
or  whether  they  were  away 
just  then  on  a  war-path,  I 
could  n't  determine ;  but 
they  did  not  appear  in  any 
great  force,  —  in  fact,  did 
not  appear  at  all. 

In  the  remarkable  geog- 
raphy which  I  never  hurt 
myself  with  studying  at 
New  Orleans,  was  a  pic- 
ture representing  the  land- 
ing of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers 
at  Plymouth.  The  Pilgrim 
Fathers,  in  rather  odd  hats 
and  coats,  are  seen  approaching  the  savages ;  the 
savages,  in  no  coats  or  hats  to  speak  of,  are  evidently 
undecided  whether  to  shake  hands  with  the  Pilgrim 
Fathers  or  to  make  one  grand  rush  and  scalp  the 


EIVERMOUTH. 


20 


entire  party.  Now  this  scene  had  so  stamped  itself 
on  my  mind,  that,  in  spite  of  all  my  father  had  said, 
I  was  prepared  for  some  such  greeting  from  the 
aborigines.  Nevertheless,  I  was  not  sorry  to  have 
my  expectations  unfulfilled.  By  the  way,  speaking 
of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers,  I  often  used  to  wonder  why 
there  was  no  mention  made  of  the  Pilgrim  Mothers. 

While  our  trunks  were  being  hoisted  from  the  hold 
of  the  ship,  I  mounted  on  the  roof  of  the  cabin,  and 
took  a  critical  view  of  Boston.  As  we  came  up  the 
harbor,  I  had  noticed  that  the  houses  were  huddled 
together  on  an  immense  hill,  at  the  top  of  which  was 
a  large  building,  the  State  House,  towering  proudly 
above  the  rest,  like  an  amiable  mother-hen  surround- 
ed by  her  brood  of  many-colored  chickens.  A  closer 
inspection  did  not  impress  me  very  favorably.  The 
city  was  not  nearly  so  imposing  as  New  Orleans, 
which  stretches  out  for  miles  and  miles,  in  the  shape 
of  a  crescent,  along  the  banks  of  the  majestic  river. 

I  soon  grew  tired  of  looking  at  the  masses  of 
houses,  rising  above  one  another  in  irregular  tiers, 
and  was  glad  my  father  did  not  propose  to  remain 
long  in  Boston.  As  I  leaned  over  the  rail  in  this 
mood,  a  measly-looking  little  boy  with  no  shoes  said 
that  if  I  would  come  down  on  the  wharf  he 'd  lick 
me  for  two  cents,  —  not  an  exorbitant  price.  But  I 
did  n't  go  down.  I  climbed  into  the  rigging,  and 
stared  at  him.  This,  as  I  was  rejoiced  to  observe,  so 
exasperated  him  that  he  stood  on  his  head  on  a  pile 
of  boards,  in  order  to  pacify  himself 


30 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


A  FRIENDLY  OFFER. 


The  first  train  for  Ei vermouth  left  at  noon.  After 
a  late  breakfast  on  board  the  Typhoon,  our  trunks 
were  piled  upon  a  baggage-wagon,  and  ourselves 
stowed  away  in  a  coach,  which,  must  have  turned  at 
least  one  hundred  corners  before  it  set  us  down  at 
the  railway  station. 


RIVERMOUTH. 


32. 


In  less  time  than  it  takes  to  tell  it,  we  were  shoot- 
ing across  the  country  at  a  fearful  rate,  —  now  clatter- 
ing over  a  bridge,  now  screaming  through  a  tunnel ; 
here  we  cut  a  flourishing  village  in  two,  like  a  knife, 
and  here  we  dived  into  the  shadow  of  a  pine  forest. 
Sometimes  we  glided  along  the  edge  of  the  ocean, 
and  could  see  the  sails  of  ships  twinkling  like  bits 
of  silver  against  the  horizon ;  sometimes  we  dashed 
across  rocky  pasture-lands  where  stupid-eyed  cattle 
were  loafing.  It  was  fun  to  scare  the  lazy-looking 
cows  that  lay  round  in  groups  under  the  newly  budded 
trees  near  the  railroad  track. 

We  did  not  pause  at  any  of  the  little  brown  sta- 
tions on  the  route  (they  looked  just  like  overgrown 
black-walnut  clocks),  though  at  every  one  of  them  a 
man  popped  out  as  if  he  were  worked  by  machinery, 
and  waved  a  red  flag,  and  appeared  as  though  he 
would  like  to  have  us  stop.  But  we  were  an  express 
train,  and  made  no  stoppages,  excepting  once  or  twice 
to  give  the  engine  a  drink. 

It  is  strange  how  the  memory  clings  to  some  things. 
It  is  over  twenty  years  since  I  took  that  first  ride  to 
Ki vermouth,  and  yet,  oddly  enough,  I  remember  as  if 
it  were  yesterday,  that,  as  we  passed  slowly  through 
tlie  village  of  Hampton,  we  saw  two  boys  fighting 
behind  a  red  barn.  There  was  also  a  shaggy  yellow 
dog,  who  looked  as  if  he  had  commenced  to  unravel, 
barking  himself  all  up  into  a  knot  with  excitement. 
We  had  only  a  hurried  glimpse  of  the  battle,  —  long 
enough,  however,  to  see  that  the  combatants  were 


32 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


equally  matched  and  very  much  in  earnest.  I  am 
ashamed  to  say  how  many  times  since  I  have  spec- 
ulated as  to  which  boy  got  licked.  Maybe  both  the 
small  rascals  are  dead  now  (not  in  consequence  of 
the  set-to,  let  us  hope),  or  maybe  they  are  married, 
and  have  pugnacious  urchins  of  their  own ;  yet  to 
this  day  I  sometimes  find  myself  wondering  how  that 
fight  turned  out. 

We  had  been  riding  perhaps  two  hours  and  a  half, 
when  we  shot  by  a  tall  factory  with  a  chimney  resem- 
bling a  church-steeple ;  then  the  locomotive  gave  a 
scream,  the  engineer  rang  his  bell,  and  we  plunged 
into  the  twilight  of  a  long  wooden  building,  open 
at  both  ends.  Here  we  stopped,  and  the  conductor, 
thrusting  his  head  in  at  the  car  door,  cried  out,  "  Pas- 
sengers for  Eivermouth  ! " 

At  last  we  had  reached  our  journey's  end.  On  the 
platform  my  father  shook  hands  with  a  straight,  brisk 
old  gentleman  whose  face  was  very  serene  and  rosy 
He  had  on  "a  white  hat  and  a  long  swallow-tailed 
coat,  the  collar  of  which  came  clear  up  above  his 
ears.  He  did  n't  look  unlike  a  Pilgrim  Father.  This, 
of  course,  was  Grandfather  Nutter,  at  whose  house  I 
was  born.  My  mother  kissed  him  a  great  many 
times ;  and  I  was  glad  to  see  him  myself,  though  I 
naturally  did  not  feel  very  intimate  with  a  person 
whom  I  had  not  seen  since  I  was  eighteen  months 
old. 

While  we  were  getting  into  the  double-seated  wag- 
on which  Grandfather  Nutter  had  provided,  I  took 


RIVERMOUTH. 


33 


the  opportunity  of  asking  after  the  health  of  the 
pony.  The  pony  had  arrived  all  right  ten  days  be- 
fore, and  was  in  the  stable  at  home,  quite  anxious  to 
see  me. 

As  we  drove  through  the  quiet  old  town,  I  thought 
Eivermouth  the  prettiest  place  in  the  world ;  and  I 
think  so  still.  The  streets  are  long  and  wide,  shaded 
by  gigantic  American  elms,  whose  drooping  branches, 
interlacing  here  and  there,  span  the  avenues  with 
arches  graceful  enough  to  be  the  handiwork  of  fairies. 
Many  of  the  houses  have  small  flower-gardens  in 
front,  gay  in  the  season  with  china-asters,  and  are 
substantially  built,  with  massive  chimney-stacks  and 
protruding  eaves.  A  beautiful  river  goes  rippling 
by  the  town,  and,  after  turning  and  twisting  among 
a  lot  of  tiny  islands,  empties  itself  into  the  sea. 

The  harbor  is  so  fine  that  the  largest  ships  can  sail 
directly  up  to  the  wharves  and  drop  anchor.  Only 
they  don't.  Years  ago  it  was  a  famous  seaport. 
Princely  fortunes  were  made  in  the  West  India  trade ; 
and  in  1812,  when  we  were  at  war  with  Great  Britain, 
any  number  of  privateers  were  fitted  out  at  Eiver- 
mouth to  prey  upon  the  merchant  vessels  of  the  en- 
emy. Certain  people  grew  suddenly  and  mysteriously 
rich.  A  great  many  of  "  the  first  families  "  of  to-day 
do  not  care  to  trace  their  pedigree  back  to  the  time 
when  their  grandsires  owned  shares  in  the  Matilda 
Jane,  twenty-four  guns.    Well,  well  ! 

Few  ships  come  to  Eivermouth  now.  Commerce 
drifted  into  other  ports.    The  phantom  fleet  sailed 


34 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


off  one  day,  and  never  came  back  again.  The  crazy 
old  warehouses  are  empty ;  and  barnacles  and  eel- 
grass  cling  to  the  piles  of  the  crumbling  wharves, 
where  the  sunshine  lies  lovingly,  bringing  out  the 
faint  spicy  odor  that  haunts  the  place,  —  the  ghost 
of  the  old  dead  West  India  trade ! 

During  our  ride  from  the  station,  I  was  struck,  of 
course,  only  by  the  general  neatness  of  the  houses 
and  the  beauty  of  the  elm-trees  lining  the  streets. 
I  describe  Eivermouth  now  as  I  came  to  know  it 
afterwards. 

Eivermouth  is  a  very  ancient  town.  In  my  day 
there  existed  a  tradition  among  the  boys  that  it  was 
here  Christopher  Columbus  made  his  first  landing  on 
this  continent.  I  remember  having  the  exact  spot 
pointed  out  to  me  by  Pepper  Whitcomb !  One  thing 
is  certain.  Captain  John  Smith,  who  afterwards, 
according  to  their  legend,  married  Pocahontas,  — 
whereby  he  got  Powhatan  for  a  father-in-law,  —  ex- 
plored the  river  in  1614,  and  was  much  charmed  by 
the  beauty  of  Eivermouth,  which  at  that  time  was 
covered  with  wild  strawberry-vines. 

Eivermouth  figures  prominently  in  all  the  colonial 
histories.  Every  other  house  in  the  place  has  its 
tradition  more  or  less  grim  and  entertaining.  If 
ghosts  could  flourish  anywhere,  there  are  certain 
streets  in  Eivermouth  that  would  be  full  of  them. 
I  don't  know  of  a  town  with  so  many  old  houses. 
Let  us  linger,  for  a  moment,  in  front  of  the  one 
which  the  Oldest  Inhabitant  is  always  sure  to  poiiil, 
out  to  the  curious  stranger. 


RIVERMOUTH. 


35 


It  is  a  square  wooden  edifice,  with  gambrel  roof 
and  deep-set  window-frames.  Over  the  windows  and 
doors  there  used  to  be  heavy  carvings, —  oak-leaves 
and  acorns,  and  angels'  heads  with  wings  spread- 
ing from  the  ears,  oddly  jumbled  together ;  but  these 
ornaments  and  other  outward  signs  of  grandeur  have 
long  since  disappeared.  A  peculiar  interest  attaches 
itself  to  this  house,  not  because  of  its  age,  for  it 
has  not  been  standing  quite  a  century;  nor  on  ac- 
count of  its  architecture,  which  is  not  striking,— 
but  because  of  the  illustrious  men  who  at  various 
periods  have  occupied  its  spacious  chambers. 

In  1770  it  was  an  aristocratic  hotel.  At  the  left 
side  of  the  entrance  stood  a  high  post,  from  which 
swung  the  sign  of  the  Earl  of  Halifax.  The  land- 
lord was  a  stanch  loyahst,  —  that  is  to  say,  he  be- 
lieved in  the  king,  and  when  the  overtaxed  colonies 
determined  to  throw  off  the  British  yoke,  the  ad- 
herents to  the  Crown  held  private  meetings  in  one 
of  the  back  rooms  of  the  tavern.  This  irritated  the 
rebels,  as  they  were  called ;  and  one  night  they  made 
an  attack  on  the  Earl  of  Halifax,  tore  down  the  sign- 
board, broke  in  the  window-sashes,  and  gave  the 
landlord  hardly  time  to  make  himself  invisible  over 
a  fence  in  the  rear. 

For  several  months  the  shattered  tavern  remained 
deserted,  At  last  the  exiled  innkeeper,  on  promising 
to  do  better,  was  allowed  to  return ;  a  new  sign,  bear- 
ing the  name  of  William  Pitt,  the  friend  of  America, 
swung  proudly  from  the  door-post,  and  the  patriots 


36 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


jirere  appeased.  Here  it  was  that  the  mail-coact 
from  Boston  twice  a  week,  for  many  a  year,  set  down 
its  load  of  travellers  and  gossip.  For  some  of  the 
details  in  this  sketch,  I  am  indebted  to  a  recently 
published  chronicle  of  those  times. 

It  is  1782.  The  French  Heet  is  lying  in  the  har- 
bor of  Ei vermouth,  and  eight  of  the  principal  offi- 
cers, in  white  uniforms  trimmed  with  gold  lace,  have 
taken  up  their  quarters  at  the  sign  of  the  William 
Pitt.  Who  is  this  young  and  handsome  officer  now 
entering  the  door  of  the  tavern  ?  It  is  no  less  a  per- 
sonage than  the  Marquis  Lafayette,  who  has  come  all 
the  way  from  Providence  to  visit  the  French  gentle- 
men boarding  there.  What  a  gallant-looking  cavalier 
he  is,  with  his  quick  eyes  and  coal-black  hair !  Forty 
years  later  he  visited  the  spot  again ;  his  locks  were 
gray  and  his  step  was  feeble,  but  his  heart  held  its 
young  love  for  Liberty. 

Who  is  this  finely  dressed  traveller  alighting  from 
his  coach-and-four,  attended  by  servants  in  livery  ? 
Do  you  know  that  sounding  name,  written  in  big 
A^alorous  letters  on  the  Declaration  of  Independence, 
—  written  as  if  by  the  hand  of  a  giant  ?  Can  you 
not  see  it  now  ?  —  John  Hancock.    This  is  he. 

Three  young  men,  with  their  valet,  are  standing  on 
the  door-step  of  the  William  Pitt,  bowing  politely, 
and  inquiring  in  the  most  courteous  terms  in  the 
world  if  they  can  be  accommodated.  It  is  the  time 
of  the  French  Eevolution,  and  these  are  three  sons 
of  the  Duke  of  Orleans.  —  Louis  Philii^pe  and  hia 


RIVERMOUTH. 


37 


two  brothers.  Louis  Philippe  never  forgot  his  visit 
to  Eivermouth.  Years  afterwards,  when  he  was 
seated  on  the  throne  of  France,  he  asked  an  Ameri- 
can lady,  who  chanced  to  be  at  his  court,  if  the  pleas- 
ant old  mansion  were  still  standing. 

But  a  greater  and  a  better  man  than  the  king  of 
the  French  has  honored  this  roof.  Here,  in  1789, 
came  George  Washington,  the  President  of  the  United 
States,  to  pay  his  final  complimentary  visit  to  the 
State  dignitaries.  The  wainscoted  chamber  where 
he  slept,  and  the  dining-hall  where  he  entertained 
his  guests,  have  a  certain  dignity  and  sanctity  which 
even  the  present  Irish  tenants  cannot  wholly  destroy. 

During  the  period  of  my  reign  at  Eivermouth,  an 
ancient  lady.  Dame  Jocelyn  by  name,  lived  in  one 
of  the  upper  rooms  of  this  notable  building.  She 
was  a  dashing  young  belle  at  the  time  of  Washing- 
ton's first  visit  to  the  town,  and  must  have  been  ex- 
ceedingly coquettish  and  pretty,  judging  from  a  cer- 
tain portrait  on  ivory  still  in  the  possession  of  the 
family.  According  to  Dame  Jocelyn,  George  Wash- 
ington flirted  with  her  just  a  little  bit,  —  in  what  a 
stately  and  highly  finished  manner  can  be  imagined. 

There  was  a  mirror  with  a  deep  filigreed  frame 
hanging  over  the  mantel-piece  in  this  room.  The 
glass  was  cracked  and  the  quicksilver  rubbed  off  or 
discolored  in  many  places.  Wlien  it  reflected  your 
face  you  had  the  singular  pleasure  of  not  recognizing 
yourseK.  It  gave  your  features  the  appearance  of 
having  been  run  through  a  mince-meat  machine. 


38 


THE  STOKY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


But  what  rendered  the  looking-glass  a  thing  of  en- 
chantment to  me  was  a  faded  green  feather,  tipped 
with  scarlet,  which  drooped  from  the  top  of  the 
tarnished  gilt  mouldings.  This  feather  Washington 
took  from  the  plume  of  his  three-cornered  hat,  and 
presented  with  his  own  hand  to  the  worshipful  Mis- 
tress Jocelyn  the  day  he  left  Eivermouth  forever.  I 
wish  I  could  describe  the  mincing  genteel  air,  and 
the  ill-concealed  self-complacency,  with  which  the 
dear  old  lady  related  the  incident. 

Many  a  Saturday  afternoon  have  I  climbed  up  the 
rickety  staircase  to  that  dingy  room,  which  always 
had  a  flavor  of  snuff  about  it,  to  sit  on  a  stiff-backed 
chair  and  listen  for  hours  together  to  Dame  Jocelyn's 
stories  of  the  olden  time.  How  she  would  prattle  ! 
She  was  bedridden,  —  poor  creature  !  —  and  had  not 
been  out  of  the  chamber  for  fourteen  years.  Mean- 
while the  world  had  shot  ahead  of  Dame  Jocelyn. 
The  changes  that  had  taken  place  under  her  very 
nose  were  unknown  to  this  faded,  crooning  old  gen- 
tlewoman, whom  the  eighteenth  century  had  neg- 
lected to  take  away  with  the  rest  of  its  odd  traps. 
She  had  no  patience  with  new-fangled  notions.  The 
old  ways  and  the  old  times  were  good  enough  for  her 
She  had  never  seen  a  steam-engine,  though  she  had 
heard  "the  dratted  thing"  screech  in  the  distance. 
In  lier  day,  when  gentlefolk  travelled,  they  went  in 
their  own  coaches.  She  did  n't  see  how  respectable 
people  could  bring  themselves  down  to  "  riding  in  a 
car  with  rag-tag  and  bobtail  and  Lord-knows-who." 


RIVERMOUTH. 


39 


Poor  old  aristocrat !  the  landlord  charged  her  no  rent 
for  the  room,  and  the  neighbors  took  turns  in  supply- 
ing her  with  meals.  Towards  the  close  of  her  life, 
—  she  lived  to  be  ninety-nine,  —  she  grew  very  fret- 
ful and  capricious  about  her  food.  If  she  did  nt 
chance  to  fancy  what  was  sent  her,  she  had  no  hesi- 
tation in  sending  it  back  to  the  giver  with  "  Miss 
Jocelyn's  respectful  compliments." 

But  I  have  been  gossiping  too  long,  —  and  yet  not 
too  long  if  I  have  impressed  upon  the  reader  an  idea 
of  what  a  rusty,  delightful  old  town  it  was  to  which 
I  had  come  to  spend  the  next  three  or  four  years  of 
my  boyhood. 

A  drive  of  twenty  minutes  from  the  station  brought 
us  to  the  door-step  of  Grandfather  Nutter's  house. 
What  kind  of  house  it  was,  and  what  sort  of  people 
lived  in  it,  shall  be  told  in  another  chapter. 


40  THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  NUTTER  HOUSE  AND  THE  NUTTER  FAMILT. 

HE  Nutter  House,  —  all  the 
more  prominent  dwellings 
in  Rivermoutli  are  named 
after  somebody;  for  in- 
stance, there  is  the  Wal- 
ford  House,  the  Venner 
House,  the  Trefethen 
House,  etc.,  though  it  by- 
no  means  follows  that  they 
are  inhabited  by  the  people 
whose  names  they  bear, — 
the  Nutter  House,  to  re- 
sume, has  been  in  our  fam- 
ily nearly  a  hundred  years, 
and  is  an  honor  to  the 
builder  (an  ancestor  of 
ours,  I  believe),  supposing 
durability  to  be  a  merit. 
If  our  ancestor  was  a  car- 
penter, he  knew  his  trade.  I  wish  I  knew  mine  as 
well.  Such  timber  and  such  workmanship  don't  often 
come  together  in  houses  built  nowadays. 

Imagine  a  low-studded  structure,  with  a  wide  haU 


THE  NUTTER  HOUSE  AND  THE  NUTTER  FAMILY.  41 

running  through  the  middle.  At  your  right  hand, 
as  you  enter,  stands  a  tall  black  mahogany  clock, 
looking  like  an  Egyptian  mummy  set  up  on  end. 
On  each  side  of  the  hall  are  doors  (whose  knobs,  it 
must  be  confessed,  do  not  turn  very  easily),  opening 
into  large  rooms  wainscoted  and  rich  in  wood-carv- 
ings about  the  mantel-pieces  and  cornices.  The  walla 
are  covered  with  pictured  paper,  representing  land- 
scapes and  sea-views.  In  the  parlor,  for  example, 
this  enlivening  figure  is  repeated  all  over  the  room : 
—  A  group  of  English  peasants,  wearing  Italian  hats, 
are  dancing  on  a  lawn  that  abruptly  resolves  itself 
into  a  sea-beach,  upon  which  stands  a  flabby  fisher- 
man (nationality  unknown),  quietly  hauling  in  what 
appears  to  be  a  small  whale,  and  totally  regardless  of 
the  dreadful  naval  combat  going  on  just  beyond  the 
end  of  his  fishing-rod.  On  the  other  side  of  the 
ships  is  the  main-land  again,  with  the  same  peasants 
dancing.  Our  ancestors  were  very  w^orthy  people, 
but  their  wall-papers  were  abominable. 

There  are  neither  grates  nor  stoves  in  these  quaint 
chambers,  but  splendid  open  chimney-places,  with 
room  enough  for  the  corpulent  back-log  to  turn  over 
comfortably  on  the  polished  andirons.  A  wide  stair- 
case leads  from  the  hall  to  the  second  story,  which  is 
arranged  much  Like  the  first.  Over  this  is  the  garret. 
I  need  n't  tell  a  'New  England  boy  what  a  museum 
of  curiosities  is  the  garret  of  a  well-regulated  New 
England  house  of  fifty  or  sixty  years'  standing.  Here 
meet  together,  as  if  by  some  preconcerted  arrange- 


42 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


ment,  all  the  broken-down  cliairs  of  the  household, 
all  the  spavined  tables,  all  the  seedy  hats,  all  the  in- 
toxicated-looking  boots,  all  the  split  walking-sticks 
that  have  retired  from  business,  "  weary  with  the 
march  of  life."  The  pots,  the  pans,  the  trunks,  the 
bottles,  —  who  may  hope  to  make  an  inventory  of  the 
numberless  odds  and  ends  collected  in  this  bewilder- 
ing lumber-room  ?  But  what  a  place  it  is  to  sit  of  an 
afternoon  with  the  rain  pattering  on  the  roof  1  what 
a  place  in  which  to  read  Gulliver's  Travels,  or  the 
famous  adventures  of  Einaldo  Pdnaldini ! 


THE  NUTTER  HOUSE. 


THE  NUTTER  HOUSE  AND  THE  NUTTER  FAMILY.  43 

My  grandfather's  house  stood  a  little  back  from 
the  main  street,  in  the  shadow  of  two  handsome 
elms,  whose  overgrown  boughs  would  dash  them- 
selves against  the  gables  wlienever  the  wind  blew 
hard.  In  the  rear  was  a  pleasant  garden,  covering 
perhaps  a  quarter  of  an  acre,  full  of  plum-trees 
and  gooseberry-bushes.  These  trees  were  old  set- 
tlers, and  are  all  dead  now,  excepting  one,  which 
bears  a  purple  plum  as  big  as  an  egg.  This  tree,  as  I 
remark,  is  still  standing,  and  a  more  beautiful  tree  to 
tumble  out  of  never  grew  anywhere.  In  the  north- 
western corner  of  the  garden  were  the  stables  and 
carriage-house  opening  upon  a  narrow  lane.  You 
may  imagine  that  I  made  an  early  visit  to  that  local- 
ity to  inspect  Gypsy.  Indeed,  I  paid  her  a  visit 
every  half-hour  during  the  first  day  of  my  arrival. 
At  the  twenty-fourth  visit  she  trod  on  my  foot  rather 
heavily,  as  a  reminder,  probably,  that  I  was  wearing 
out  my  welcome.  She  was  a  knowing  little  pony, 
that  Gypsy,  and  I  shall  have  much  to  say  of  her  in 
the  course  of  these  pages. 

Gypsy's  quarters  were  all  that  could  be  wished,  but 
nothing  among  my  new  surroundings  gave  me  more 
satisfaction  than  the  cosey  sleeping  apartment  that 
had  been  prepared  for  myseK.  It  was  the  hall  room 
over  the  front  door. 

I  had  never  had  a  chamber  all  to  myself  before, 
and  this  one,  about  twice  the  size  of  our  state-room 
on  board  the  Typhoon,  was  a  marvel  of  neatness  and 
comfort.    Pretty  chintz  curtains  hung  at  the  window, 


44 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


and  a  patch  quilt  of  more  colors  than  were  in  J oseph's 
coat  covered  the  little  truckle-bed.  The  pattern  of 
the  wall-paper  left  nothing  to  be  desired  in  that  line. 
On  a  gray  background  were  small  bunches  of  leaves, 
unlike  any  that  ever  grew  in  this  world ;  and  on  every 
other  bunch  perched  a  yellow-bird,  pitted  with  crim- 
son spots,  as  if  it  had  just  recovered  from  a  severe 
attack  of  the  small-pox.  That  no  such  bird  ever  ex- 
isted did  not  detract  from  my  admiration  of  each  one. 
There  were  two  hundred  and  sixty-eight  of  these 
birds  in  all,  not  counting  those  split  in  two  where  the 
paper  was  badly  joined.  I  counted  them  once  when 
I  was  laid  up  with  a  fine  black  eye,  and  falling  asleep 
immediately  dreamed  that  the  whole  flock  suddenly 
took  wing  and  flew  out  of  the  window.  From  that 
time  I  was  never  able  to  regard  them  as  merely  inan- 
imate objects. 

A  wash-stand  in  the  corner,  a  chest  of  carved  ma- 
hogany drawers,  a  looking-glass  in  a  filigreed  frame, 
and  a  high-backed  chair  studded  with  brass  nails  hke 
a  coffin,  constituted  the  furniture.  Over  the  head  of 
the  bed  were  two  oak  shelves,  holding  perhaps  a 
dozen  books,  —  among  which  were  Theodore,  or  The 
Peruvians  ;  Eobinson  Crusoe ;  an  odd  volume  of  Tris- 
tram Shandy ;  Baxter's  Saints'  Eest,  and  a  fine  Eng- 
lish edition  of  the  Arabian  Mghts,  with  six  hundred 
wood-cuts  by  Harvey. 

Shall  I  ever  forget  the  hour  when  I  first  overhauled 
these  books  ?  I  do  not  allude  especially  to  Baxter's 
Saints'  Rest,  which  is  far  from  being  a  lively  work 


THE  NUTTER  HOUSE  AND  THE  NUTTER  FAMILY.  45 

for  the  young,  but  to  the  Arabian  Nights,  and  particu- 
larly Eobinson  Crusoe.  The  thrill  that  ran  into  my 
fingers'  ends  then  has  not  run  out  yet.  Many  a  time 
did  I  steal  up  to  this  nest  of  a  room,  and,  taking  the 
dog's-eared  volume  from  its  shelf,  glide  off  into  an 
enchanted  realm,  where  there  were  no  lessons  to  get 
and  no  boys  to  smash  my  kite.  In  a  lidless  trunk  in 
the  garret  I  subsequently  unearthed  another  motley 
collection  of  novels  and  romances,  embracing  the 
adventures  of  Baron  Trenck,  Jack  Sheppard,  Don 
Quixote,  Gil  Bias,  and  Charlotte  Temple,  —  all  of 
which  I  fed  upon  like  a  bookworm. 

I  never  come  across  a  copy  of  any  of  those  works 
without  feeling  a  certain  tenderness  for  the  yellow- 
haired  little  rascal  who  used  to  lean  above  the  magic 
pages  hour  after  hour,  religiously  believing  every  word 
he  read,  and  no  more  doubting  the  reality  of  Sindbad  the 
Sailor,  or  the  Knight  of  the  Sorrowful  Countenance, 
than  he  did  the  existence  of  his  own  grandfather. 

Against  the  wall  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  hung  a 
single-barrel  shot-gun,  —  placed  there  by  Grandfather 
Nutter,  who  knew  what  a  boy  loved,  if  ever  a  grand- 
father did.  As  the  trigger  of  the  gun  had  been  acci- 
dentally twisted  off,  it  was  not,  perhaps,  the  most 
dangerous  weapon  that  could  be  placed  in  the  hands 
of  youth.  In  this  maimed  condition  its  "  bump  of 
destructiveness "  was  much  less  than  that  of  my 
small  brass  pocket-pistol,  which  I  at  once  proceeded 
to  suspend  from  one  of  the  nails  supporting  the  fowl- 
ing-piece, for  my  vagaries  concerning  the  red  man 
had  been  entirely  dispelled 


46  THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


Having  introduced  the  reader  to  the  Nutter  House, 
a  presentation  to  the  Nutter  family  naturally  follows. 
The  family  consisted  of  my  grandfather ;  his  sister. 
Miss  Abigail  Nutter  ;  and  Kitty  Collins,  the  maid-of- 
all-work. 

Grandfather  Nutter  was  a  hale,  cheery  old  gentle- 
man, as  straight  and  as  bald  as  an  arrow.  He  had 
been  a  sailor  in  early  life  ;  that  is  to  say,  at  the  age 
of  ten  years  he  fled  from  the  multiplication-table,  and 
ran  away  to  sea.  A  single  voyage  satisfied  him. 
There  never  was  but  one  of  our  family  who  did  nH 
run  away  to  sea,  and  this  one  died  at  his  birth.  My 
grandfather  had  also  been  a  soldier,  —  a  captain  of 
militia  in  1812.  If  I  owe  the  British  nation  any- 
thing, I  owe  thanks  to  that  particular  British  soldier 
who  put  a  musket-baU  into  the  fleshy  part  of  Captain 
Nutter's  leg,  causing  that  noble  warrior  a  slight  per- 
manent limp,  but  offsetting  the  injury  by  furnishing 
him  with  the  material  for  a  story  which  the  old  gen- 
tleman was  never  weary  of  teUing  and  I  never  weary 
of  listening  to.    The  story,  in  brief,  was  as  follows. 

At  the  breaking  out  of  the  war,  an  English  frigate 
lay  for  several  days  off  the  coast  near  Eivermouth. 
A  strong  fort  defended  the  harbor,  and  a  regiment  of 
minute-men,  scattered  at  various  points  along-shore, 
stood  ready  to  repel  the  boats,  should  the  enemy  try 
to  effect  a  landing.  Captain  Nutter  had  charge  of  a 
slight  earthwork  just  outside  the  mouth  of  the  river. 
Late  one  thick  night  the  sound  of  oars  was  heard ;  the 
sentinel  tried  to  fire  off  his  gun  at  haK-cock,  and 


THE  NUTTER  HOUSE  AND  THE  NUTTER  FAMILY.  47 

could  n't,  when  Captain  Nutter  sprung  upon  the  para- 
pet in  the  pitch  darkness,  and  shouted,  "  Boat  ahoy  ! " 
A  musket-shot  immediately  embedded  itself  in  the 
calf  of  his  leg.  The  Captain  tumbled  into  the  fort 
and  the  boat,  which  had  probably  come  in  search  of 
u^ater,  pulled  back  to  the  frigate. 

This  w^as  my  grandfather's  only  exploit  during  the 
war.  That  his  prompt  and  bold  conduct  was  instru- 
mental in  teaching  the  enemy  the  hopelessness  of 
attempting  to  conquer  such  a  people  was  among  the 
firm  beliefs  of  my  boyhood. 

At  the  time  I  came  to  Eivermouth  my  grandfather 
had  retired  from  active  pursuits,  and  was  living  at 
ease  on  his  money,  invested  principally  in  shipping. 
He  had  been  a  widower  many  years  ;  a  maiden  sister, 
the  aforesaid  Miss  Abigail,  managing  his  household. 
Miss  Abigail  also  managed  her  brother,  and  her  broth- 
er's servant,  and  the  visitor  at  her  brother's  gate,  — 
not  in  a  tyrannical  spirit,  but  from  a  philanthropic 
desire  to  be  useful  to  everybody.  In  person  she  was 
tall  and  angular;  she  had  a  gray  complexion,  gray 
eyes,  gray  eyebrows,  and  generally  wore  a  gray  dress. 
Her  strongest  weak  point  was  a  belief  in  the  efficacy 
of  "  hot-drops  "  as  a  cure  for  all  known  diseases. 

If  there  were  ever  two  people  who  seemed  to  dis- 
like each  other,  Miss  Abigail  and  Kitty  Collins  were 
those  people.  If  ever  two  people  really  loved  each 
other.  Miss  Abigail  and  Kitty  Collins  were  those  peo- 
ple also.  They  were  always  either  skirmishing  oi 
having  a  cup  of  tea  lovingly  together. 


48 


THE  STOHY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


Miss  Abigail  was  very  fond  of  me,  and  so  was 
Kitty ;  and  in  the  course  of  their  disagreements  each 
let  me  into  the  private  history  of  the  other. 

According  to  Kitty,  it  was  not  originally  my  grand- 
father's intention  to  have  Miss  Abigail  at  the  head 
of  his  domestic  establishment.  She  had  swooped 
down  on  him  (Kitty's  own  words),  with  a  band-box 
in  one  hand  and  a  faded  blue  cotton  umbrella,  still 
in  existence,  in  the  other.  Clad  in  this  singular  garb, 
■ —  I  do  not  remember  that  Kitty  alluded  to  any  addi- 
tional peculiarity  of  dress,  —  IViiss  Abigail  had  made 
her  appearance  at  the  door  of  the  Nutter  House  on 
the  morning  of  my  grandmother's  funeral.  The  small 
amount  of  baggage  which  the  lady  brought  with  her 
would  have  led  the  superficial  observer  to  infer  that 
Miss  Abigail's  ^risit  was  limited  to  a  few  days.  I 
run  ahead  of  my  story  in  saying  she  remained  seven- 
teen years !  How  much  longer  she  would  have  re- 
mained can  never  be  definitely  known  now,  as  she 
died  at  the  expiration  of  that  period. 

AVhether  or  not  my  grandfather  was  quite  pleased 
by  this  unlooked-for  addition  to  his  family  is  a  prob- 
lem. He  was  very  kind  always  to  Miss  Abigail,  and 
seldom  opposed  her ;  though  I  think  she  must  have 
tried  his  patience  sometimes,  especially  when  she 
interfered  with  Kitty. 

Kitty  Collins,  or  Mrs.  Catherine,  as  she  preferred 
to  be  called,  was  descended  in  a  direct  line  from  an 
extensive  family  of  kings  who  formerly  ruled  over 
Ireland.    In  consequence  of  various  calamities,  among 


THE  NUTTER  HOUSE  AND  THE  NUTTER  FAMILY.  49 


which  the  failure  of  the  potato-crop  may  be  men- 
tioned, Miss  Kitty  Collins,  in  company  with  several 
hundred  of  her  countrymen  and  countrywomen, — 
also  descended  from  kings,  —  came  over  to  America 
*  in  an  emigrant  ship,  in  the  year  eighteen  hundred 
and  something. 

I  don't  know  what  freak  of  fortune  caused  the  royal 
exile  to  turn  up  at  Ei vermouth ;  but  turn  up  she  did, 
a  few  months  after  arriving  in  this  country,  and  was 
hired  by  my  grandmother  to  do  "  general  housework  " 
for  the  sum  of  four  shillings  and  sixpence  a  week. 

Kitty  had  been  living  about  seven  years  in  my 
grandfather's  family  when  she  unburdened  her  heart 
of  a  secret  which  had  been  weighing  upon  it  all  that 
time.  It  may  be  said  of  people,  as  it  is  said  of  na- 
tions, "  Happy  are  they  that  have  no  history."  Kitty 
had  a  history,  and  a  pathetic  one,  I  think. 

On  board  the  emigrant  ship  that  brought  her  to 
America,  she  became  acquainted  with  a  sailor,  who, 
being  touched  by  Kitty's  forlorn  condition,  was  very 
good  to  her.  Long  before  the  end  of  the  voyage, 
which  had  been  tedious  and  perilous,  she  was  heart- 
broken at  the  thought  of  separating  from  her  kindly 
protector ;  but  they  were  not  to  part  just  yet,  for  the 
sailor  returned  Kitty's  affection,  and  the  two  were 
married  on  their  arrival  at  port.  Elitty's  husband  — 
she  would  never  mention  his  name,  but  kept  it  locked 
in  her  bosom  like  some  precious  relic  —  had  a  con- 
siderable sum  of  money  when  the  crew  were  paid 
off ;  and  the  young  couple  —  for  Kitty  was  young 


50 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


then  —  lived  very  happily  in  a  lodging-house  on  South 
Street,  near  the  docks.    This  was  in  New  York. 

The  days  flew  by  like  hours,  and  the  stocking  in 
«vhich  the  little  bride  kept  the  funds  shrunk  and 
shrunk,  until  at  last  there  were  only  three  or  four  ' 
dollars  left  in  the  toe  of  it.  Then  Kitty  was  troubled  ; 
for  she  knew  her  sailor  would  have  to  go  to  sea  again 
unless  he  could  get  employment  on  shore.  This  he 
endeavored  to  do,  but  not  with  much  success.  One 
morning  as  usual  he  kissed  her  good  day,  and  set  out 
in  search  of  work. 

"  Kissed  me  good  by,  and  called  me  his  little  Irish 
lass,"  sobbed  Kitty,  telling  the  story,  —  "  kissed  me 
good  by,  and,  Heaven  help  me  !  I  niver  set  oi  on 
him  nor  on  the  likes  of  him  again." 

He  never  came  back.  Day  after  day  dragged  on, 
night  after  night,  and  then  the  weary  weeks.  What 
had  become  of  him  ?  Had  he  been  murdered  ?  had 
he  fallen  into  the  docks  ?  had  he  —  deserted  her  ?  No  ! 
she  could  not  believe  that ;  he  was  too  brave  and  ten- 
der and  true.  She  could  n't  believe  that.  He  was 
dead,  dead,  or  he 'd  come  back  to  her. 

Meanwhile  the  landlord  of  the  lodging-house  turned 
Kitty  into  the  streets,  now  that  "  her  man  "  was  gone, 
and  the  payment  of  the  rent  doubtful.  She  got  a 
place  as  a  servant.  The  family  she  lived  with  shortly 
moved  to  Boston,  and  she  accompanied  them ;  then 
they  went  abroad,  but  Kitty  would  not  leave  Amer- 
ica.  Somehow  she  drifted  to  Eivermouth,  and  foi 
seven  long  years  never  gave  speech  to  her  sorrow 


THE  NUTTER  HOUSE  AND  THE  NUTTEE  FAMILY.  51 

until  the  kindness  of  strangers,  who  had  become 
friends  to  her,  unsealed  the  heroic  lips. 

Kitty's  story,  you  may  be  sure,  made  my  grand- 
parents treat  her  more  kindly  than  ever.  In  time  she 
grew  to  be  regarded  less  as  a  servant  than  as  a  friend 
in  the  home  circle,  sharing  its  joys  and  sorrows,  —  a 
faithful  nurse,  a  willing  slave,  a  happy  spirit  in  spite 
of  all.  I  fancy  I  hear  her  singing  over  her  work  in 
the  kitchen,  pausing  from  time  to  time  to  make  some 
witty  reply  to  Miss  Abigail,  —  for  Kitty,  like  all  her 
race,  had  a  vein  of  unconscious  humor.  Her  bright 
honest  face  comes  to  me  out  from  the  past,  the  light 
and  life  of  the  Nutter  House  when  I  was  a  boy  at 
Eivermouth. 


52 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS. 


HE  first  shadow  that  fell 
upon  me  in  my  new  home 
was  caused  by  the  return  of 
my  parents  to  New  Orleans. 
Their  visit  was  cut  short  by 
business  which  required  my 
father's  presence  in  Natchez, 
where  he  was  establishing  a 
branch  of  the  banking-house. 
When  they  had  gone,  a  sense 
of  loneliness  such  as  I  had 
never  dreamed  of  filled  my 
young  breast.  I  crept  away 
to  the  stable,  and,  throwing 
my  arms  about  Gypsy's  neck, 
sobbed  aloud.  She  too  had 
come  from  the  sunny  South, 
and  was  now  a  stranger  in  a 
strange  land. 

The  little  mare  seemed  to 
realize  our  situation,  and  gave  me  all  the  sympathy  I 
could  ask,  repeatedly  rubbing  her  soft  nose  over  my 
face  and  lapping  up  my  salt  tears  with  evident  relisL 


LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS. 


53 


When  night  came,  I  felt  still  more  lonesome.  My 
grandfather  sat  in  his  arm-chair  the  greater  part  of 
the  evening,  reading  the  Eivermouth  Barnacle,  the 
local  newspaper.  There  was  no  gas  in  those  days, 
and  the  Captain  read  by  the  aid  of  a  small  block-tin 
lamp,  which  he  held  in  one  hand.  I  observed  that 
he  had  a  habit  of  dropping  off  into  a  doze  every 
three  or  four  minutes,  and  I  forgot  my  homesickness 
at  intervals  in  watching  him.  Two  or  three  times, 
to  my  vast  amusement,  he  scorched  the  edges  of  the 
newspaper  with  the  wick  of  the  lamp ;  and  at  about 
half  past  eight  o'clock  I  had  the  satisfaction  —  I  am 
sorry  to  confess  it  was  a  satisfaction  —  of  seeing  the 
Eivermouth  Barnacle  in  flames. 

]\Iy  grandfather  leisurely  extinguished  the  fire  with 
his  hands,  and  Miss  Abigail,  who  sat  near  a  low  table, 
knitting  by  the  light  of  an  astral  lamp,  did  not  even 
look  up.    She  was  quite  used  to  this  catastrophe. 

There  was  little  or  no  conversation  during  the 
evening.  In  fact,  I  do  not  remember  that  any  one 
spoke  at  all,  excepting  once,  when  the  Captain  re- 
marked, in  a  meditative  manner,  that  my  parents 
"  must  have  reached  New  York  by  this  time  " ;  at 
which  supposition  I  nearly  strangled  myself  in  at- 
tempting to  intercept  a  sob. 

The  monotonous  "  click  click "  of  Miss  Abigail's 
needles  made  me  nervous  after  a  while,  and  finally 
drove  me  out  of  the  sitting-room  into  the  kitchen, 
where  Kitty  caused  me  to  laugh  by  saying  Miss 
Abigail  thought  that  what  I  needed  was  "a  good 


54 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


dose  of  hot-drops/'  —  a  remedy  she  was  forever  ready 
to  administer  in  all  emergencies.  If  a  boy  broke  bis 
leg,  or  lost  his  mother,  I  believe  Miss  Abigail  would 
have  given  him  hot-drops. 

Kitty  laid  herself  out  to  be  entertaining.  She  told 
me  several  funny  Irish  stories,  and  described  some  of 
the  odd  people  living  in  the  town ;  but,  in  the  midst 
of  her  comicalities,  the  tears  would  involuntarily  ooze 
out  of  my  eyes,  though  I  was  not  a  lad  much  ad- 
dicted to  weeping.  Then  Kitty  would  put  her  arms 
around  me,  and  tell  me  not  to  mind  it,  —  that  it 
was  n't  as  if  I  had  been  left  alone  in  a  foreign  land 
with  no  one  to  care  for  me,  like  a  poor  girl  whom 
she  had  once  known.  I  brightened  up  before  long, 
and  told  Kitty  all  about  the  Typhoon  and  the  old 
seaman,  whose  name  I  tried  in  vain  to  recall,  and 
was  obliged  to  fall  back  on  plain  Sailor  Ben. 

I  was  glad  when  ten  o'clock  came,  the  bedtime  for 
young  folks,  and  old  folks  too,  at  the  Nutter  House. 
Alone  in  the  hall-chamber  I  had  my  cry  out,  once 
for  all,  moistening  the  pillow  to  such  an  extent  that 
I  was  obliged  to  turn  it  over  to  find  a  dry  spot  to  go 
to  sleep  on. 

My  grandfather  wisely  concluded  to  put  me  to 
school  at  once.  If  I  had  been  permitted  to  go  moon- 
ing about  the  house  and  stables,  I  should  have  kept 
my  discontent  alive  for  months.  The  next  morning, 
accordingly,  he  took  me  by  the  hand,  and  we  set 
forth  for  the  academy,  which  was  located  at  the  far- 
ther end  of  the  town. 


LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS. 


55 


The  Temple  School  was  a  two-story  brick  building, 
standing  in  the  centre  of  a  great  square  piece  of  land, 
surrounded  by  a  high  picket  fence.  There  were  three 
or  four  sickly  trees,  but  no  grass,  in  this  enclosure, 
which  had  been  worn  smooth  and  hard  by  the  tread 
of  multitudinous  feet.  I  noticed  here  and  there 
small  holes  scooped  in  the  ground,  indicating  that 
it  was  the  season  for  marbles.  A  better  playground 
for  base-ball  could  n't  have  been  devised. 

On  reaching  the  school-house  door,  the  Captain 
inquired  for  Mr.  Grimshaw.  The  boy  who  answered 
our  knock  ushered  us  into  a  side-room,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  —  during  which  my  eye  took  in  forty-two 
caps  hung  on  forty-two  wooden  pegs  —  Mr.  Grim- 
shaw made  his  appearance.  He  was  a  slender  man, 
with  white,  fragile  hands,  and  eyes  that  glanced  half 
a  dozen  different  ways  at  once,  —  a  habit  probably 
acquired  from  watching  the  boys. 

After  a  brief  consultation,  my  grandfather  patted 
me  on  the  head  and  left  me  in  charge  of  this  gentle- 
man, who  seated  himself  in  front  of  me  and  pro- 
ceeded to  soimd  the  depth,  or,  more  properly  speak- 
ing, the  shallowness,  of  my  attainments.  I  suspect 
my  historical  information  rather  startled  him.  I 
recollect  I  gave  him  to  understand  that  Richard  III. 
was  the  last  king  of  England. 

This  ordeal  over,  Mr.  Grimshaw  rose  and  bade  me 
follow  him.  A  door  opened,  and  I  stood  in  the  blaze 
of  forty- two  pairs  of  upturned  eyes.  I  was  a  cool 
hand  for  my  age,  but  I  lacked  the  boldness  to  face 


56 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


this  battery  without  mncing.  In  a  sort  of  dazed 
way  I  stumbled  after  Mr.  Grimshaw  do^vll  a  narrow 
aisle  between  two  rows  of  desks,  and  shyly  took  the 
seat  pointed  out  to  me. 

The  faint  buzz  that  had  floated  over  the  school- 
room at  our  entrance  died  away,  and  the  interrupted 
lessons  were  resumed.  By  degrees  I  recovered  my 
coolness,  and  ventured  to  look  around  me. 

The  owners  of  the  forty-two  caps  were  seated  at 
small  green  desks  like  the  one  assigned  to  me.  The 
desks  were  arranged  in  six  rows,  with  spaces  between 
just  wide  enough  to  prevent  the  boys'  whispering. 
A  blackboard  set  into  the  wall  extended  clear  across 
the  end  of  the  room ;  on  a  raised  platform  near  the 
door  stood  the  master's  table ;  and  directly  in  front 
of  this  was  a  recitation-bench  capable  of  seating 
fifteen  or  twenty  pupils.  A  pair  of  globes,  tattooed 
with  dragons  and  winged  horses,  occupied  a  shelf  be- 
tween two  windows,  which  were  so  high  from  the  floor 
that  nothing  but  a  giraffe  could  have  looked  out  of 
them. 

Having  possessed  myself  of  these  details,  I  scru- 
tinized my  new  acquaintances  with  unconcealed  curi- 
osity, instinctively  selecting  my  friends  and  picking 
out  my  enemies,  —  and  in  only  two  cases  did  I  mis- 
take my  man. 

A  sallow  boy  with  bright  red  hair,  sitting  in  the 
fourth  row,  shook  his  fist  at  me  furtively  several  times 
during  the  morning.  I  had  a  presentiment  I  should 
have  trouble  with  that  boy  some  day,  —  a  presenti- 
ment subsequently  realized. 


LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS. 


57 


On  my  left  was  a  chubby  little  fellow  with  a  great 
many  freckles  (this  was  Pepper  Whitcomb),  who 
made  some  mysterious  motions  to  me.  I  did  n't  un- 
derstand them,  but,  as  they  were  clearly  of  a  pacific 
nature,  I  winked  my  eye  at  him.  This  appeared  to 
be  satisfactory,  for  he  then  went  on  with  his  studies. 
At  recess  he  gave  me  the  core  of  his  apple,  though 
there  were  several  applicants  for  it. 

Presently  a  boy  in  a  loose  olive-green  jacket  with 
two  rows  of  brass  buttons  held  up  a  folded  paper  be- 
hind his  slate,  intimating  that  it  was  intended  for  me. 
The  paper  was  passed  skilfully  from  desk  to  desk  until 
it  reached  my  hands.  On  opening  the  scrap,  I  found 
that  it  contained  a  small  piece  of  molasses  candy  in 
an  extremely  humid  state.  This  was  certainly  kind. 
I  nodded  my  acknowledgments  and  hastily  slipped 
the  delicacy  into  my  mouth.  In  a  second  I  felt  my 
tongue  grow  red-hot  with  cayenne  pepper. 

My  face  must  have  assumed  a  comical  expression, 
for  the  boy  in  the  olive-green  jacket  gave  an  hyster- 
ical laugh,  for  which  he  was  instantly  punished  by 
Mr.  Grimshaw.  I  swallowed  the  fiery  candy,  though 
it  brought  the  water  to  my  eyes,  and  managed  to  look 
so  unconcerned  that  I  was  the  only  pupil  in  the  form 
who  escaped  questioning  as  to  the  cause  of  Marden's 
misdemeanor.    C.  Marden  was  his  name. 

Nothing  else  occurred  that  morning  to  interrupt 
the  exercises,  excepting  that  a  boy  in  the  reading 
class  threw  us  all  into  convulsions  by  calling  Absa- 
lom A-bol'-som,  —  "Abolsom,  0  my  son  Abolsom!" 

3* 


58. 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


I  laughed  as  loud  as  any  one,  but  I  am  not  so  sure 
that  I  should  n't  have  pronounced  it  Abolsom  myself. 

At  recess  several  of  the  scholars  came  to  my  desk 
and  shook  hands  with  me,  Mr.  Grimshaw  having  pre- 
viously introduced  me  to  Phil  Adams,  charging  him 
to  see  that  I  got  into  no  trouble.  My  new  acquaint- 
ances suggested  that  we  should  go  to  the  playground. 
We  were  no  sooner  out  of  doors  than  the  boy  with 
the  red  hair  thrust  his  way  through  the  crowd  and 
placed  himself  at  my  side. 

"  I  say,  youngster,  if  you  're  comin'  to  this  school 
you 've  got  to  toe  the  mark." 

I  did  n't  see  any  mark  to  toe,  and  did  n't  under- 
stand what  he  meant ;  but  I  replied  politely,  that, 
if  it  was  the  custom  of  the  school,  I  should  be  happy 
to  toe  the  mark,  if  he  would  point  it  out  to  me. 

"  I  don't  want  any  of  your  sarse,"  said  the  boy, 
scowling. 

"  Look  here,  Conway  ! "  cried  a  clear  voice  from  the 
other  side  of  the  playground,  "  you  let  young  Bailey 
alone.  He 's  a  stranger  here,  and  might  be  afraid  of 
you,  and  thrash  you.  Why  do  you  always  throw 
yourself  in  the  way  of  getting  thrashed  ? " 

I  turned  to  the  speaker,  who  by  this  time  had 
reached  the  spot  where  we  stood.  Conway  slunk  off, 
favoring  me  with  a  parting  scowl  of  defiance.  I  gave 
my  hand  to  the  boy  who  had  befriended  me,  —  his 
name  was  Jack  Harris,  —  and  thanked  him  for  his 
good-will. 

"  I  tell  you  what  it  is.  Bailey,"  he  said,  returning 


LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS. 


59 


my  pressure  good-naturedly,  "you'll  have  to  fight 
Conway  before  the  quarter  ends,  or  you  '11  have  no 
rest.  That  fellow  is  always  hankering  after  a  licking;, 
and  of  course  you  '11  give  him  one  by  and  by ;  but 
what 's  the  use  of  hurrying  up  an  unpleasant  job  ? 
Let 's  have  some  base-ball.  By  the  way,  Bailey,  you 
were  a  good  kid  not  to  let  on  to  Grimshaw  about  the 
candy.  Charley  Harden  would  have  caught  it  twice 
as  heavy.  He 's  sorry  he  played  the  joke  on  you, 
and  told  me  to  tell  you  so.  Hallo,  Blake  !  where  are 
the  bats  ? " 

This  was  addressed  to  a  handsome,  frank-looking 
Jad  of  about  my  own  age,  who  was  engaged  just  then 
in  cutting  his  initials  on  the  bark  of  a  tree  near  the 
school-house.  Blake  shut  up  his  penknife  and  went 
off  to  get  the  bats. 

During  the  game  which  ensued  I  made  the  ac- 
quaintance of  Charley  Harden,  Binny  Wallace,  Pep--^ 
per  Whitcomb,  Harry  Blake,  and  Fred  Langdon. 
These  boys,  none  of  them  more  than  a  year  or  two 
older  than  I  (Binny  Wallace  was  younger),  were  ever 
after  my  chosen  comrades.  Phil  Adams  and  Jack 
Harris  were  considerably  our  seniors,  and,  though 
they  always  treated  us  "  kids  "  very  kindly,  they  gen- 
erally went  with  another  set.  Of  course,  before  long 
I  knew  all  the  Temple  boys  more  or  less  intimately, 
but  the  five  I  have  named  were  my  constant  com- 
panions. 

My  first  day  at  the  Temple  Grammar  School  was 
on  the  whole  satisfactory.     I  had  made  several  warm 


60 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


friends  and  only  two  permanent  enemies,  —  Conway 
and  his  echo,  Seth  Eodgers  ;  for  these  two  always 
went  together  like  a  deranged  stomach  and  a  head- 
ache. 

Before  the  end  of  the  week  I  had  my  studies  well 
in  hand.  I  was  a  little  ashamed  at  finding  myseK 
at  the  foot  of  the  various  classes,  and  secretly  deter- 
mined to  deserve  promotion.  The  school  was  an  ad- 
mirable one.  I  might  make  this  part  of  my  story 
more  entertaining  by  picturing  Mr.  Grimshaw  as  a 
tjrrant  with  a  red  nose  and  a  large  stick ;  but  unfor- 
tunately for  the  purposes  of  sensational  narrative, 
Mr.  Grimshaw  was  a  quiet,  kind-hearted  gentleman. 
Though  a  rigid  disciplinarian,  he  had  a  keen  sense  of 
justice,  was  a  good  reader  of  character,  and  the  boys 
respected  him.  There  were  two  other  teachers, — 
a  French  tutor  and  a  writing-master,  who  visited 
the  school  twice  a  week.  On  Wednesdays  and  Satur- 
days we  were  dismissed  at  noon,  and  these  half-holi- 
days were  the  brightest  epochs  of  my  existence. 

Daily  contact  with  boys  who  had  not  been  brought 
up  as  gently  as  I  worked  an  immediate,  and,  in  some 
respects,  a  beneficial  change  in  my  character.  I  had 
the  nonsense  taken  out  of  me,  as  the  saying  is,  — 
some  of  the  nonsense,  at  least.  I  became  more 
manly  and  self-reliant.  I  discovered  that  the  world 
was  not  created  exclusively  on  my  account.  In  New 
Orleans  I  labored  under  the  delusion  that  it  was. 
Having  neither  brother  nor  sister  to  give  up  to  at 


LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS. 


61 


home,  and  being,  moreover,  the  largest  pupil  at  school 
there,  my  will  had  seldom  been  opposed.  At  Eiver- 
mouth  matters  were  different,  and  I  was  not  long  in 
adapting  myself  to  the  altered  circumstances.  Of 
course  I  got  many  severe  rubs,  often  unconsciously 
given ;  but  I  had  the  sense  to  see  that  I  was  all  the 
better  for  them. 

My  social  relations  with  my  new  schoolfellows 
were  the  pleasantest  possible.  There  was  always 
some  exciting  excursion  on  foot, — a  ramble  through 
the  pine  woods,  a  visit  to  the  Devil's  Pulpit,  a  high 
cliff  in  the  neighborhood,  —  or  a  surreptitious  row 
on  the  river,  involving  an  exploration  of  a  group  of 
diminutive  islands,  upon  one  of  which  we  pitched  a 
tent  and  played  we  were  the  Spanish  sailors  who  got 
wrecked  there  years  ago.  But- the.  endless  pine  forest 
that  skirted  the  town  was  our  favorite  haunt.  There 
was  a  great  green  pond  hidden  somewhere  in  its 
depths,  inhabited  by  a  monstrous  colony  of  turtles. 
Harry  Blake,  who  had  an  eccentric  passion  for  carv- 
ing his  name  on  everything,  never  let  a  captured  tur- 
tle slip  through  his  fingers  without  leaving  his  mark 
engraved  on  its  shell.  He  must  have  lettered  about 
two  thousand  from  first  to  last.  We  used  to  call 
them  Harry  Blake's  sheep. 

These  turtles  were  of  a  discontented  and  migratory 
turn  of  mind,  and  we  frequently  encountered  two  or 
three  of  them  on  the  cross-roads  several  miles  from 
their  ancestral  mud.  Unspeakable  was  our  delight 
whenever  we  discovered  one  soberly  walking  off  with 


62 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


Harry  Blake's  initials  !  I 've  no  doubt  there  are,  at 
this  moment,  fat  ancient  turtles  wanderinir  about 
that  gummy  woodland  with  H.  B.  neatly  cut  on  theii 
venerable  backs. 

It  soon  became  a  custom  among  my  playmates  to 
make  our  barn  their  rendezvous.  Gypsy  proved  a 
strong  attraction.  Captain  Nutter  bought  me  a  little 
two-wheeled  cart,  which  she  drew  quite  nicely,  after 
kicking  out  the  dasher  and  breaking  the  shafts  once 
or  twice.  With  our  lunch-baskets  and  fishing-tackle 
stowed  away  under  the  seat,  we  used  to  start  off  early 
in  the  afternoon  for  the  sea-shore,  where  there  were 
countless  marvels  in  the  shape  of  shells,  mosses,  and 
kelp.  Gypsy  enjoyed  the  sport  as  keenly  as  any  of 
us,  even  going  so  far,  one  day,  as  to  trot  down  the 
beach  into  the  sea  where  we  were  bathing.  As  she 
took  the  cart  with  her,  our  provisions  were  not  much 
improved.  I  shall  never  forget  how  squash-pie  tastes 
after  being  soused  in  the  Atlantic  Ocean.  Soda»- 
crackers  dipped  in  salt  water  are  palatable,  but  not 
squash-pie. 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  wet  weather  during  those 
first  six  weeks  at  Eivermouth,  and  we  set  ourselves 
at  work  to  find  some  in-door  amusement  for  our  half- 
holidays.  It  was  all  very  well  for  Amadis  de  Gaul 
and  Don  Quixote  not  to  mind  the  rain ;  they  had 
iron  overcoats,  and  were  not,  from  all  we  can  learn, 
subject  to  croup  and  the  guidance  of  their  grand- 
fathers.   Our  case  was  different. 

"  Now,  boys,  what  shall  we  do  ? "  I  asked,  address^ 


LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS. 


63 


ing  a  thoughtful  conclave  of  seven,  assembled  in  our 
barn  one  dismal  rainy  afternoon. 

"  Let 's  have  a  theatre,"  suggested  Binny  Wallace. 

The  very  thing!  But  where?  The  loft  of  the 
stable  was  ready  to  burst  with  hay  provided  for 
Gypsy,  but  the  long  room  over  the  carriage-house 
was  unoccupied.  The  place  of  all  places  !  My 
managerial  eye  saw  at  a  glance  its  capabilities  for 
a  theatre.  I  had  been  to  the  play  a  great  many 
times  in  New  Orleans,  and  was  wise  in  matters  per- 
taining to  the  drama.  So  here,  in  due  time,  was  set 
up  some  extraordinary  scenery  of  my  own  painting. 
The  curtain,  I  recollect,  though  it  worked  smoothly 
enough  on  other  occasions,  invariably  hitched  during 
the  performances ;  and  it  often  required  the  united 
energies  of  the  Prince  of  Denmark,  the  King,  and 
the  Grave-digger,  with  an  occasional  hand  from  "  the 
fair  Ophelia  "  (Pepper  Whitcomb  in  a  low-necked 
dress),  to  hoist  that  bit  of  green  cambric. 

The  theatre,  however,  was  a  success,  as  far  as  it 
went.  I  retired  from  the  business  with  no  fewer 
than  fifteen  hundred  pins,  after  deducting  the  head- 
less, the  pointless,  and  the  crooked  pins  with  which 
our  doorkeeper  frequently  got  "  stuck."  From  first 
to  last  we  took  in  a  great  deal  of  this  counterfeit 
money.  The  price  of  admission  to  the  "  Rivermouth 
Theatre  "  was  twenty  pins.  I  played  all  the  princi- 
pal parts  myself,  —  not  that  I  was  a  finer  actor  tlmn 
the  other  boys,  but  because  I  owned  the  establish- 
ment 


64 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


At  the  tenth  representation,  my  dramatic  career 
was  brought  to  a  close  by  an  unfortunate  circum- 
stance. We  were  playing  the  drama  of  "William 
Tell,  the  Hero  of  Switzerland."  Of  course  I  was 
William  Tell,  in  spite  of  Fred  Langdon,  who  wanted 
to  act  that  character  himself.  I  would  n't  let  him, 
so  he  withdrew  from  the  company,  taking  the  only 
bow  and  arrow  we  had.  I  made  a  cross-bow  out  of 
a  piece  of  whalebone,  and  did  very  well  without  him. 
We  had  reached  that  exciting  scene  where  Gessler, 
the  Austrian  tyrant,  commands  Tell  to  shoot  the 
apple  from  his  son's  head.  Pepper  Whitcomb,  who 
played  all  the  juvenile  and  women  parts,  w^as  my 
son.  To  guard  against  mischance,  a  piece  of  paste- 
board was  fastened  by  a  handkerchief  over  the  upper 
portion  of  Whitcomb's  face,  while  the  arrow  to  be 
used  was  sewed  up  in  a  strip  of  flannel.  I  was  a 
capital  marksman,  and  the  big  apple,  only  two  yards 
distant,  turned  its  russet  cheek  fairly  towards  me. 

I  can  see  poor  little  Pepper  now,  as  he  stood  with- 
out flinching,  waiting  for  me  to  perform  my  great 
feat.  I  raised  the  cross-bow  amid  the  breathless 
silence  of  the  crowded  audience,  —  consisting  of 
seven  boys  and  three  girls,  exclusive  of  Kitty  Col- 
iins,  who  insisted  on  paying  her  way  in  with  a 
clothes-pin.  I  raised  the  cross-bow,  I  repeat.  Twang  I 
went  the  w^liipcord  ;  but,  alas  !  instead  of  hitting  the 
apple,  the  arrow^  flew  right  into  Pepper  Whitcomb's 
mouth,  which  happened  to  be  open  at  the  time,  and 
destroyed  my  aim. 


LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS^ 


65 


I  PERFORM  MY  GREAT  FEAT= 


I  shall  never  be  able  to  banish  that  awful  moment 
from  my  memory.  Pepper's  roar,  expressive  of 
astonishment,  indignation,  and  pain,  is  still  ringing 
in  my  ears.  I  looked  upon  him  as  a  corpse,  and, 
glancing  not  far  into  the  dreary  future,  pictured  my- 
self led  forth  to  execution  in  tlie  presence  of  the 
very  same  spectators  then  assembled. 

Luckily  poor  Pepper  was  not  seriously  hurt ;  but 
Grandfather  I^utter,  appearing  in  the  midst  of  the 
©onfusion  (attracted  by  the  howls  of  young  Tell)^ 

I 


66 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


issued  an  injunction  against  all  theatricals  there- 
after, and  the  place  was  closed ;  not,  however,  with- 
out a  farewell  speech  from  me,  in  which  I  said  that 
this  would  have  been  the  proudest  moment  of  my 
life  if  I  had  n't  hit  Pepper  Whitcomb  in  the  mouth. 
Whereupon  the  audience  (assisted,  I  am  glad  to  state, 
by  Pepper)  cried  "  Hear  !  hear  !  "  I  then  attributed 
the  accident  to  Pepper  himself,  whose  mouth,  being 
open  at  the  instant  I  fired,  acted  upon  the  arrow 
much  after  the  fashion  of  a  whirlpool,  and  drew  in 
the  fatal  shaft.  I  was  about  to  explain  how  a  com- 
paratively small  maelstrom  could  suck  in  the  largest 
ship,  when  the  curtain  fell  of  its  own  accord,  amid 
the  shouts  of  the  audience. 

This  was  my  last  appearance  on  any  stage.  It 
was  some  time,  though,  before  I  heard  the  end  of 
the  William  Tell  business.  Malicious  little  boys 
who  had  n't  been  allowed  to  buy  tickets  to  my  thea- 
tre used  to  cry  out  after  me  in  the  street,  — 

"  '  Who  killed  Cock  Robin  ?  ' 
'  I,'  said  the  sparrer, 
'  With  my  bow  and  arrer, 
I  killed  Cock  Robin!'  " 

The  sarcasm  of  this  verse  was  more  than  I  could 
stand.  And  it  made  Pepper  Whitcomb  pretty  mad 
to  be  called  Cock  Robin,  I  can  tell  you ! 

So  the  days  glided  on,  with  fewer  clouds  and  more 
sunshine  than  fall  to  the  lot  of  most  boys.  Conway 
was  certainly  a  cloud.  Within  school-bounds  he 
seldom  ventured  to  be  aggressive ;  but  whenever  we 


LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS. 


67 


met  about  town  he  never  failed  to  brush  against  me, 
or  pull  my  cap  over  my  eyes,  or  drive  me  distracted 
by  inquiring  after  my  family  in  New  Orleans,  always 
alluding  to  them  as  highly  respectable  colored  people. 

Jack  Harris  was  right  when  he  said  Conway  would 
give  me  no  rest  until  I  fought  him.  I  felt  it  was 
ordained  ages  before  our  birth  that  we  should  meet 
on  this  planet  and  fight.  With  the  view  of  not  run- 
ning counter  to  destiny,  I  quietly  prepared  myself  for 
the  impending  conflict.  The  scene  of  my  dramatic 
triumphs  was  turned  into  a  gymnasium  for  this  pur- 
pose, though  I  did  not  openly  avow  the  fact  to  the 
boys.  By  persistently  standing  on  my  head,  raising 
heavy  weights,  and  going  hand  over  hand  up  a  ladder, 
I  developed  my  muscle  until  my  little  body  was  as 
tough  as  a  hickory  knot  and  as  supple  as  tripe.  I 
also  took  occasional  lessons  in  the  noble  art  of  self- 
defence,  under  the  tuition  of  Phil  Adams. 

I  brooded  over  the  matter  until  the  idea  of  fight- 
ing Conway  became  a  part  of  me.  I  fought  him  in 
imagination  during  school-hours ;  I  dreamed  of  fight- 
ing with  him  at  night,  when  he  would  suddenly  ex- 
pand into  a  giant  twelve  feet  high,  and  then  as  sud- 
denly shrink  into  a  pygmy  so  small  that  I  could  n't 
hit  him.  In  this  latter  shape  he  would  get  into  my 
hair,  or  pop  into  my  waistcoat-pocket,  treating  me 
with  as  little  ceremony  as  the  Liliputians  showed 
Captain  Lemuel  Gulliver,  —  all  of  which  was  not 
pleasant,  to  be  sure.  On  the  whole,  Conway  was  a 
cloud. 


68 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


And  then  I  had  a  cloud  at  home.  It  was  not 
Grandfather  Nutter,  nor  Miss  Abigail,  nor  Kitty  Col- 
lins, though  they  all  helped  to  compose  it.  It  was 
a  vague,  funereal,  impalpable  something  which  no 
amount  of  gymnastic  training  would  enable  me  to 
knock  over.  It  was  Sunday.  If  ever  I  have  a  boy 
to  bring  up  in  the  way  he  should  go,  I  intend  to 
make  Sunday  a  cheerful  day  to  him.  Sunday  was 
not  a  cheerful  day  at  the  Nutter  House.  You  shall 
judge  for  yourself. 

It  is  Sunday  morning.  I  should  premise  by  saying 
that  the  deep  gloom  which  has  settled  over  every- 
thing set  in  like  a  heavy  fog  early  on  Saturday  even- 
ing. 

At  seven  o'clock  my  grandfather  comes  smilelessly 
down  stairs.  He  is  dressed  in  black,  and  looks  as  if 
he  had  lost  all  his  friends  during  the  night.  Miss 
Abigail,  also  in  black,  looks  as  if  she  were  prepared 
to  bury  them,  and  not  indisposed  to  enjoy  the  cere- 
mony. Even  Kitty  Collins  has  caught  the  contagious 
gloom,  as  I  perceive  when  she  brings  in  the  coffee- 
urn,  —  a  solemn  and  sculpturesque  urn  at  any  time, 
but  monumental  now,  —  and  sets  it  down  in  front  of 
Miss  Abigail.  Miss  Abigail  gazes  at  the  urn  as  if  it 
held  the  ashes  of  her  ancestors,  instead  of  a  generous 
quantity  of  fine  old  Java  coffee.  The  meal  progress- 
es in  silence. 

Our  parlor  is  by  no  means  thrown  open  every  day. 
It  is  open  this  June  morning,  and  is  pervaded  by  a 
Btrong  smell  of  centre-table.    The  furniture  of  the 


LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS. 


69 


room,  and  the  little  China  ornaments  on  the  mantel- 
piece, have  a  constrained,  unfamiliar  look.  My  grand- 
father sits  in  a  mahogany  chair,  reading  a  large  Bible 
covered  with  green  baize.  Miss  Abigail  occupies  one 
end  of  the  sofa,  and  has  her  hands  crossed  stiffly  in 
her  lap.  I  sit  in  the  corner,  crushed.  Eobinson  Cru- 
soe and  Gil  Bias  are  in  close  confinement.  Baron 
Trenck,  who  managed  to  escape  from  the  fortress  of 
Glatz,  can't  for  the  life  of  him  get  out  of  our  sitting- 
room  closet.  Even  the  Eivermouth  Barnacle  is  sup- 
pressed until  Monday.  Genial  converse,  harmless 
books,  smiles,  lightsome  hearts,  all  are  banished.  If 
I  want  to  read  anything,  I  can  read  Baxter's  Saints' 
Best.  I  would  die  first.  So  I  sit  there  kicking  my 
heels,  thinking  about  N"ew  Orleans,  and  watching  a 
morbid  blue-bottle  fly  that  attempts  to  commit  sui- 
cide by  butting  his  head  against  the  window-pane. 
Listen  !  —  no,  yes,  —  it  is  —  it  is  the  robins  singing 
in  the  garden,  —  the  grateful,  joyous  robins  singing 
away  like  mad,  just  as  if  it  was  n't  Sunday  Their 
audacity  tickles  me. 

My  grandfather  looks  up,  and  inquires  in  a  sepul- 
chral voice  if  I  am  ready  for  Sabbath  school.  It  is 
time  to  go.  I  like  the  Sabbath  school ;  there  are 
bright  young  faces  there,  at  all  events.  When  I  get 
out  into  the  sunshine  alone,  I  draw  a  long  breath ;  I 
would  turn  a  somersault  up  against  Neighbor  Penhal- 
low's  newly  painted  fence  if  I  had  n't  my  best  trou- 
sers on,  so  glad  am  I  to  escape  from  the  oppressive 
atmosphere  of  the  Nutter  House. 


70 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


Sabbath  school  over,  I  go  to  meeting,  joining  my 
grandfather,  who  does  n't  appear  to  be  any  relation  to 
me  this  day,  and  Miss  Abigail,  in  the  porch.  Our 
minister  holds  out  very  little  hope  to  any  of  us  of 
being  saved.  Convinced  that  I  am  a  lost  creature, 
in  common  with  the  human  family,  I  return  home 
behind  my  guardians  at  a  snail's  pace.  We  have  a 
dead  cold  dinner.    I  saw  it  laid  out  yesterday. 

There  is  a  long  inter^^al  between  this  repast  and 
the  second  service,  and  a  still  longer  interval  between 
the  beginning  and  the  end  of  that  service;  for  the 
Kev.  Wibird  Hawkins's  sermons  are  none  of  the  short- 
est, whatever  else  they  may  be. 

After  meeting,  my  grandfather  and  I  take  a  walk. 
We  visit  —  appropriately  enough  —  a  neighboring 
graveyard.  I  am  by  this  time  in  a  condition  of  mind 
to  become  a  willing  inmate  of  the  place.  The  usual 
evening  prayer-meeting  is  postponed  for  some  reason. 
At  half  past  eight  I  go  to  bed. 

This  is  the  way  Sunday  was  observed  in  the  Nut- 
ter House,  and  pretty  generally  throughout  the  town, 
twenty  years  ago.  People  who  were  prosperous  and 
natural  and  happy  on  Saturday  became  the  most 
rueful  of  human  beings  in  the  brief  space  of  twelve 
hours.  I  don't  think  there  was  any  hjrpocrisy  in 
this.  It  was  merely  the  old  Puritan  austerity  crop- 
ping out  once  a  week.  Many  of  these  people  were 
pure  Christians  every  day  in  the  seven,  — ■  excepting 
the  seventh.  Then  they  were  decorous  and  solemn 
to  the  verge  of  moroseness.    I  should  not  Hke  to  be 


LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS. 


71 


misunderstood  on  this  point.  Sunday  is  a  blessed 
day,  and  therefore  it  should  not  be  made  a  gloomy 
one.  It  is  the  Lord's  day,  and  I  do  believe  that 
cheerful  hearts  and  faces  are  not  unpleasant  in  His 
sight. 

"  0  day  of  rest !    How  beautiful,  how  fair, 
How  welcome  to  the  weary  and  the  old ! 
Day  of  the  Lord !  and  truce  to  earthly  cares ! 
Day  of  the  Lord,  as  all  our  days  should  be ! 
Ah,  why  will  man  by  his  austerities 
Shut  out  the  blessed  sunshine  and  the  light, 
And  make  of  thee  a  dungeon  of  despair !  " 


12 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOf. 


CHAPTER  YII. 

ONE  MEMORABLE  NIGHT. 

WO  months  had  elapsed  since 
my  arrival  at  Rivermouth, 
when  the  approach  of  an  im- 
portant celebration  produced 
the  greatest  excitement  among 
the  juvenile  population  of  the 
town. 

There  was  very  little  hard 
study  done  in  the  Temple 
Grammar  School  the  week 
preceding  the  Fourth  of  July. 
For  my  part,  my  heart  and 
brain  were  so  full  of  fire- 
crackers, Roman-candles,  rock- 
ets, pin-wheels,  squibs,  and 
gunpowder  in  various  seduc- 
tive forms,  that  I  wonder  I 
did  n't  explode  under  Mr. 
Grimsliaw's  very  nose.  I 
could  n't  do  a  sum  to  save  me ;  I  could  n't  tell,  for 
love  or  money,  whether  Tallahassee  was  the  capital 
of  Tennessee  or  of  Florida;  the  present  and  the 
pluperfect  tenses  were  inextricably  mixed  in  my 


ONE  MEMOEABLE  NIGHT. 


73 


memory,  and  I  didn't  know  a  verb  from  an  ad- 
jective when  I  met  one.  This  was  not  alone  my 
condition,  but  that  of  every  boy  in  the  school. 

Mr.  Grimshaw  considerately  made  allowances  for 
our  temporary  distraction,  and  sought  to  fix  our  inter- 
est on  the  lessons  by  connecting  them  directly  or  in- 
directly with  the  coming  Event.  The  class  in  arith- 
metic, for  instance,  was  requested  to  state  how  many 
boxes  of  fire-crackers,  each  box  measuring  sixteen 
inches  square,  could  be  stored  in  a  room  of  such  and 
such  dimensions.  He  gave  us  the  Declaration  of 
Independence  for  a  parsing  exercise,  and  in  geog- 
raphy confined  his  questions  almost  exclusively  to 
localities  rendered  famous  in  the  Eevolutionary  AVar. 

"  What  did  the  people  of  Boston  do  with  the  tea 
on  board  the  English  vessels  ? "  asked  our  wily  in- 
structor. 

"  Threw  it  into  the  river ! "  shrieked  the  smaller 
boys,  with  an  impetuosity  that  made  Mr.  Grimshaw 
smile  in  spite  of  himself.  One  luckless  urchin  said, 
"  Chucked  it,"  for  which  happy  expression  he  was 
kept  in  at  recess. 

N'otwithstanding  these  clever  stratagems,  there  was 
not  much  solid  work  done  by  anybody.  The  trail 
of  the  serpent  (an  inexpensive  but  dangerous  fire-toy) 
was  over  us  all.  We  went  round  deformed  by  quan- 
tities of  Chinese  crackers  artlessly  concealed  in  our 
trousers-pockets ;  and  if  a  boy  whipped  out  his  hand- 
kerchief without  proper  precaution,  he  was  sure  to 
let  off  two  or  three  torpedoes. 

4 


74 


THE  STOKY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


Even  Mr.  Grimshaw  was  made  a  sort  of  accessory 
to  the  universal  demoralization.  In  calling  the  school 
to  order,  he  always  rapped  on  the  table  with  a  heavy 
ruler.  Under  the  green  baize  table-cloth,  on  the 
exact  spot  where  he  usually  struck,  a  certain  boy, 
whose  name  I  withhold,  placed  a  fat  torpedo.  The 
result  was  a  loud  explosion,  which  caused  Mr.  Grim- 
shaw to  look  queer.  Charley  Marden  was  at  the 
water-pail,  at  the  time,  and  directed  general  atten- 
tion to  himself  by  strangling  for  several  seconds  and 
then  squirting  a  slender  thread  of  water  over  the 
blackboard. 

Mr.  Grimshaw  fixed  his  eyes  reproachfully  on 
Charley,  but  said  nothing.  The  real  culprit  (it 
was  n't  Charley  Marden,  but  the  boy  whose  name 
I  withhold)  instantly  regretted  his  badness,  and  after 
school  confessed  the  whole  thing  to  Mr.  Grimshaw, 
who  heaped  coals  of  fire  upon  the  nameless  boy's 
head  by  giving  him  five  cents  for  the  Fourth  of  July. 
If  Mr.  Grimshaw  had  caned  this  unknown  youth, 
the  punishment  would  not  have  been  half  so  severe. 

On  the  last  day  of  June  the  Captain  received  a 
letter  from  my  father,  enclosing  five  dollars  "  for  my 
son  Tom,"  which  enabled  that  young  gentleman  to 
make  regal  preparations  for  the  celebration  of  our 
national  independence.  A  portion  of  this  money, 
two  dollars,  I  hastened  to  invest  in  fireworks ;  the 
balance  I  put  by  for  contingencies.  In  placing  the 
fund  in  my  possession,  the  Captain  imposed  one  con- 
dition that  dampened  my  ardor  considerably, —  I  was 


ONE  MEMORABLE  NIGHT. 


75 


to  buy  no  gunpowder.  I  might  have  all  the  snap- 
ping-crackers  and  torpedoes  I  wanted  ;  but  gun- 
powder was  out  of  the  question. 

I  thought  this  rather  hard,  for  all  my  young  friends 
were  provided  with  pistols  of  various  sizes.  Peppei 
Whitcomb  had  a  horse-pistol  nearly  as  large  as  him- 
self, and  Jack  Harris,  though  he  to  be  sure  was  a  big 
boy,  was  going  to  have  a  real  old-fashioned  flint- 
lock musket.  However,  I  did  n't  mean  to  let  this 
drawback  destroy  my  happiness.  I  had  one  charge 
of  powder  stowed  away  in  the  little  brass  pistol 
which  I  brought  from  ISTew  Orleans,  and  was  bound 
to  make  a  noise  in  the  world  once,  .if  I  never  did 
again. 

It  was  a  custom  observed  from  time  immemorial 
for  the  towns-boys  to  have  a  bonfire  on  the  Square  ^ 
on  the  midnight  before  the  Fourth.  I  did  n't  ask 
the  Captain's  leave  to  attend  this  ceremony,  for  I 
had  a  general  idea  that  he  would  n't  give  it.  If  the 
Captain,  I  reasoned,  does  n't  forbid  me,  I  break  no 
orders  by  going.  ISTow  this  was  a  specious  line  of 
argument,  and  the  mishaps  that  befeU  me  in  conse- 
quence of  adopting  it  were  richly  deserved. 

On  the  evening  of  the  3d  I  retired  to  bed  very 
early,  in  order  to  disarm  suspicion.  I  did  n't  sleep  a 
wink,  waiting  for  eleven  o'clock  to  come  round ;  and 
I  thought  it  never  would  come  round,  as  I  lay  count- 
ing from  time  to  time  the  slow  strokes  of  the  ponder- 
ous beU  in  the  steeple  of  the  Old  North  Church.  At 
length  the  laggard  hour  arrived.  While  the  clock  was 
striking  I  jumped  out  of  bed  and  bejian  dressing. 


76 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


My  grandfather  and  Miss  Abigail  were  heavy- 
sleepers,  and  I  might  have  stolen  down  stairs  and  out 
at  the  front  door  undetected ;  but  such  a  commonplace 
proceeding  did  not  suit  my  adventurous  disposition.  I 
fastened  one  end  of  a  rope  (it  was  a  few  yards  cut  from 
Kitty  CoUins's  clothes-line)  to  the  bedpost  nearest  the 
window,  and  cautiously  climbed  out  on  the  wide  ped- 
iment over  the  hall  door.  I  had  neglected  to  knot 
the  rope  ;  the  result  was,  that,  the  moment  I  swung 
clear  of  the  pediment,  I  descended  like  a  flash  of 
lightning,  and  warmed  both  my  hands  smartly.  The 
rope,  moreover,  was  four  or  five  feet  too  short ;  so  I 
got  a  fall  that  would  have  proved  serious  had  I  not 
tumbled  into  the  middle  of  one  of  the  big  rose-bushes 
growing  on  either  side  of  the  steps. 

I  scrambled  out  of  that  without  delay,  and  was 
congratulating  myself  on  my  good  luck,  when  I  saw 
by  the  light  of  the  setting  moon  the  form  of  a  man 
leaning  over  the  garden  gate.  It  was  one  of  the 
town  watch,  who  had  probably  been  observing  my 
operations  with  curiosity.  Seeing  no  chance  of  es- 
cape, I  put  a  bold  face  on  the  matter  and  walked 
directly  up  to  him. 

"  What  on  airth  air  you  a  doin'  ? "  asked  the  man, 
grasping  the  collar  of  my  jacket. 

"  I  live  here,  sir,  if  you  please,"  I  replied,  "  and  am 
going  to  the  bonfire.  I  did  n't  want  to  wake  up  the 
old  folks,  that 's  all." 

The  man  cocked  his  eye  at  me  in  the  most  amia- 
ble manner,  and  released  his  hold. 


ONE  MEMORABLE  NIGHT. 


77 


"  Boys  is  boys,"  he  muttered.  He  did  n  t  attempt 
to  stop  me  as  I  slipped  through  the  gate. 

Once  beyond  his  clutches,  I  took  to  my  heels  and 
soon  reached  the  Square,  where  I  found  forty  or  fifty 
fellows  assembled,  engaged  in  building  a  pyramid  of 
tar-barrels.  The  palms  of  my  hands  still  tingled  so 
that  I  could  n't  join  in  the  sport.  I  stood  in  the 
doorway  of  the  Nautilus  Bank,  watching  the  workers, 
among  whom  I  recognized  lots  of  my  schoolmates. 
They  looked  like  a  legion  of  imps,  coming  and  going 
in  the  twilight,  busy  in  raising  some  infernal  edifice. 
What  a  Babel  of  voices  it  was,  everybody  directing 
everybody  else,  and  everybody  doing  everything 
wrong  ! 

When  all  was  prepared,  some  one  applied  a  match 
to  the  sombre  pile.  A  fiery  tongue  thrust  itself 
out  here  and  there,  then  suddenly  the  whole  fabric 
burst  into  flames,  blazing  and  crackling  beautifully. 
This  was  a  signal  for  the  boys  to  join  hands  and 
dance  around  the  burning  barrels,  which  they  did 
shouting  like  mad  creatures.  When  the  fire  had 
burnt  down  a  little,  fresh  staves  were  brought  and 
heaped  on  the  pyi'e.  In  the  excitement  of  the  mo- 
ment I  forgot  my  tingling  palms,  and  found  myself 
in  the  thick  of  the  carousal. 

Before  we  were  half  ready,  our  combustible  material 
was  expended,  and  a  disheartening  kind  of  darkness 
settled  down  upon  us.  The  boys  collected  together 
here  and  there  in  knots,  consulting  as  to  what  should 
be  done.    It  yet  lacked  four  or  five  hours  of  day 


78 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


break,  and  none  of  us  were  in  the  humor  to  return  to 
bed.  I  approached  one  of  the  groups  standing  neai 
the  town -pump,  and  discovered  in  the  uncertain  light 
of  the  dying  brands  the  figures  of  Jack  Harris,  Phil 
Adams,  Harry  Blake,  and  Pepper  Whitcomb,  their 
faces  streaked  with  perspiration  and  tar,  and  theii 
whole  appearance  suggestive  of  ISTew  Zealand  chiefs. 

"  Hullo  !  here 's  Tom  Bailey  ! "  shouted  Pepper 
Whitcomb ;  "  he  '11  join  in  ! " 

Of  course  he  would.  The  sting  had  gone  out  of 
my  hands,  and  I  was  ripe  for  anything,  —  none  the 
less  ripe  for  not  knowing  what  was  on  the  tapis. 
After  whispering  together  for  a  moment,  the  boys 
motioned  me  to  follow  them. 

We  glided  out  from  the  crowd  and  silently  wended 
our  way  through  a  neighboring  alley,  at  the  head  of 
which  stood  a  tumble-down  old  barn,  owned  by  one 
Ezra  Wingate.  In  former  days  this  was  the  stable 
of  the  mail-coach  that  ran  between  Rivermouth  and 
Boston.  When  the  railroad  superseded  that  primitive 
mode  of  travel,  the  lumbering  vehicle  was  rolled  into 
the  barn,  and  there  it  stayed.  The  stage-driver,  after 
prophesying  the  immediate  downfall  of  the  nation,  died 
of  grief  and  apoplexy,  and  the  old  coach  followed  in 
his  wake  as  fast  as  it  could  by  quietly  dropping  to 
pieces.  The  barn  had  the  reputation  of  being  haunted, 
and  I  think  we  all  kept  very  close  together  when  we 
found  ourselves  standing  in  the  black  shadow  cast 
by  the  tall  gable.  Here,  in  a  low  voice.  Jack  Harris 
laid  bare  his  plan,  which  was  to  burn  the  ancient 
stage-coach. 


ONE  MEMORABLE  NIGHT. 


79 


"  The  old  trundle-cart  ^  is  n't  worth  twenty-five 
cents,"  said  Jack  Harris,  "  and  Ezra  Wingate  ought 
to  thank  us  for  getting  the  rubbish  out  of  the  way. 
But  if  any  fellow  here  does  n't  want  to  have  a  hand 
in  it,  let  him  cut  and  run,  and  keep  a  quiet  tongue  in 
his  head  ever  after." 

With  this  he  pulled  out  the  staples  that  held  the 
rusty  padlock,  and  the  big  barn  door  swung  slowly 
open.  The  interior  of  the  stable  was  pitch-dark,  of 
course.  As  we  made  a  movement  to  enter,  a  sudden 
scrambling,  and  the  sound  of  heavy  bodies  leaping 
in  all  directions,  caused  us  to  start  back  in  terror. 

"Eats  !"  cried  Phil  Adams. 

"  Bats  ! "  exclaimed  Harry  Blake. 

"  Cats  ! "  suggested  J ack  Harris.   "  Who 's  afraid  ? " 

Well,  the  truth  is,  we  were  all  afraid ;  and  if  the 
pole  of  the  stage  had  not  been  lying  close  to  the 
threshold,  I  don't  believe  anything  on  earth  would 
have  induced  us  to  cross  it.  We  seized  hold  of  the 
pole-straps  and  succeeded  with  great  trouble  in  drag- 
ging the  coach  out.  The  two  fore  wheels  had  rusted 
to  the  axle-tree,  and  refused  to  revolve.  It  was  the 
merest  skeleton  of  a  coach.  The  cushions  had  long 
since  been  removed,  and  the  leather  hangings,  where 
they  had  not  crumbled  away,  dangled  in  shreds  from 
the  worm-eaten  frame.  A  load  of  ghosts  and  a  span 
of  phantom  horses  to  drag  them  would  have  made 
the  ghastly  thing  complete. 

Luckily  for  our  undertaking,  the  stable  stood  at  the 
top  of  a  very  steep  hilL    With  three  boys  to  push 


80 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


behind,  and  two  in  front  to  steer,  we  started  the  old 
coach  on  its  last  trip  with  little  or  no  difficulty.  Our 
speed  increased  every  moment,  and,  the  fore  wheels 
becoming  unlocked  as  we  arrived  at  the  foot  of  the 
declivity,  we  charged  upon  the  crowd  like  a  regiment 
of  cavalry,  scattering  the  people  right  and  left.  Be- 
'  fore  reaching  the  bonfire,  to  which  some  one  had 
added  several  bushels  of  shavings.  Jack  Harris  and 
Phil  Adams,  who  were  steering,  dropped  on  the 
ground,  and  allowed  the  vehicle  to  pass  over  them, 
which  it  did  without  injuring  them ;  but  the  boys 
who  were  clinging  for  dear  life  to  the  trunk-rack 
behind  fell  over  the  prostrate  steersmen,  and  there 
we  all  lay  in  a  heap,  two  or  three  of  us  quite  pictu- 
resque with  the  nose-bleed. 

The  coach,  with  an  intuitive  perception  of  what 
was  expected  of  it,  plunged  into  the  centre  of  the 
kindling  shavings,  and  stopped.  The  flames  sprung 
up  and  clung  to  the  rotten  woodwork,  which  burned 
like  tinder.  At  this  moment  a  figure  was  seen  leap- 
ing wildly  from  the  inside  of  the  blazing  coach.  The 
figure  made  three  bounds  towards  us,  and  tripped 
over  Harry  Blake.  It  was  Pepper  Whitcomb,  with 
his  hair  somewhat  singed,  and  his  eyebrows  com- 
pletely scorched  off ! 

Pepper  had  slyly  ensconced  himself  on  the  back 
seat  before  we  started,  intending  to  have  a  neat  little 
ride  down  hill,  and  a  laugh  at  us  afterwards.  But 
the  laugh,  as  it  happened,  was  on  our  side,  or  would 
have  been,  if  half  a  dozen  watchmen  had  not  sud- 


ONE  MEMORABLE  NIGHT. 


81 


denly  pounced  down  upon  us,  as  we  lay  scrambling 
on  the  ground,  weak  with  mirth  over  Pepper's  mis- 
fortune. We  were  collared  and  marched  off  before 
we  well  knew  what  had  happened. 

Tlie  abrupt  transition  from  the  noise  and  light  of 
the  Square  to  the  silent,  gloomy  brick  room  in  the 
rear  of  the  Meat  Market  seemed  like  the  work  of 
enchantment.    We  stared  at  each  other  aghast. 

"  Well,"  remarked  Jack  Harris,  with  a  sickly  smile, 
"  this  is  a  go  ! " 

"  No  go,  I  should  say,"  whimpered  Harry  Blake, 
glancing  at  the  bare  brick  walls  and  the  heavy  iron- 
plated  door. 

"  Never  say  die,"  muttered  Phil  Adams,  dolefully. 

The  Bridewell  was  a  small  low-studded  chamber 
built  up  against  the  rear  end  of  the  Meat  Market, 
and  approached  from  the  Square  by  a  narrow  pas- 
sage-way. A  portion  of  the  room  was  partitioned 
off  into  eight  cells,  numbered,  each  capable  of  hold- 
ing two  persons.  The  cells  were  full  at  the  time,  as 
we  presently  discovered  by  seeing  several  hideous 
faces  leering  out  at  us  through  the  gratings  of  the 
doors. 

A  smoky  oil-lamp  in  a  lantern  suspended  from  the 
ceiling  threw  a  flickering  light  over  the  apartment, 
which  contained  no  furniture  excepting  a  couple  of 
stout  wooden  benches.  It  was  a  dismal  place  by 
night,  and  only  little  less  dismal  by  day,  for  the  tall 
houses  surrounding  "  the  lock-up "  prevented  the 
faintest  ray  of  sunshine  from  penetrating  the  venti- 
4*  p 


82 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


lator  over  the  door,  —  a  long  narrow  window  open- 
ing inward  and  propped  up  by  a  piece  of  lath. 

As  we  seated  ourselves  in  a  row  on  one  of  the 
benches,  I  imagine  that  our  aspect  was  anything  but 
cheerful.  Adams  and  Harris  looked  very  anxious, 
and  Harry  Blake,  whose  nose  had  just  stopped  bleed- 
ing, was  mournfully  carving  his  name,  by  sheer  force 
of  habit,  on  the  prison  bench.  I  don't  think  I  ever 
saw  a  more  "wecked"  expression  on  any  human 
countenance  than  Pepper  ^AHiitcomb's  presented. 
His  look  of  natural  astonishment  at  finding  him- 
seK  incarcerated  in  a  jail  was  considerably  height- 
ened by  his  lack  of  eyebrows. 

As  for  me,  it  was  only  by  thinking  how  the  late 
Baron  Trenck  would  have  conducted  himself  under 
similar  circumstances  that  I  was  able  to  restrain  my 
tears. 

None  of  us  were  inclined  to  conversation.  A  deep 
silence,  broken  now  and  then  by  a  startling  snore 
from  the  cells,  reigned  throughout  the  chamber.  By 
and  by  Pepper  Whitcomb  glanced  nervously  towards 
Phil  Adams  and  said,  "  Phil,  do  you  think  they  will 
—  hang  us  ?  " 

Hang  your  grandmother  ! "  returned  Adams,  im- 
patiently ;  "  what  I 'm  afraid  of  is  that  they  '11  keep 
us  locked  up  until  the  Fourth  is  over." 

"  You  ain't  smart  ef  they  do  ! "  cried  a  voice  from 
one  of  tlie  cells.  It  was  a  deep  bass  voice  that  sent 
a  chill  through  me. 

"  Who  are  you  ?  "  said  Jack  Harris,  addressing  the* 


ONE  MEMORABLE  NIGHT. 


83 


cells  in  general ;  for  the  echoing  qualities  of  the  room 
made  it  difficult  to  locate  the  voice. 

"  That  don't  matter/'  replied  the  speaker,  putting 
his  face  close  up  to  the  gratings  of  No.  3,  "  but  ef  I 
was  a  youngster  like  you,  free  an'  easy  outside  there, 
this  spot  would  n't  hold  me  long." 

"  That 's  so  ! "  chimed  several  of  the  prison-birds, 
wagging  their  heads  behind  the  iron  lattices. 

"  Hush  ! "  whispered  Jack  Harris,  rising  from  his 
seat  and  walking  on  tip-toe  to  the  door  of  cell  No.  3, 
"What  would  you  do?" 

"  Do  ?  Why,  I 'd  pile  them  'ere  benches  up  agin 
that  'ere  door,  an'  crawl  out  of  that  'ere  winder  in  no 
time.    That 's  my  adwice." 

"  And  werry  good  adwice  it  is,  Jim,"  said  the  occu- 
pant of  No.  5,  approvingly. 

Jack  Harris  seemed  to  be  of  the  same  opinion,  for 
he  hastily  placed  the  benches  one  on  the  top  of  an- 
other under  the  ventilator,  and,  climbing  up  on  the 
highest  bench,  peeped  out  into  the  passage-way. 

"  If  any  gent  happens  to  have  a  ninepence  about 
him,"  said  the  man  in  cell  No.  3,  "  there 's  a  sufferin' 
family  here  as  could  make  use  of  it.  Smallest  favors 
gratefully  received,  an'  no  questions  axed." 

This  appeal  touched  a  new  silver  quarter  of  a  dol- 
lar in  my  trousers-pocket ;  I  fished  out  the  coin  from 
a  mass  of  fireworks,  and  gave  it  to  the  prisoner.  He 
appeared  to  be  so  good-natured  a  fellow  that  I  ven- 
tured to  ask  what  he  had  done  to  get  into  jaiL 

"  Intirely  innocent.    I  was  clapped  in  here  by  a 


84 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


rascally  nevew  as  wishes  to  enjoy  my  wealth  afore 
I 'm  dead." 

"  Your  name,  sir  ? "  I  inquired,  with  a  view  of  re- 
porting the  outrage  to  my  grandfather  and  having  the 
injured  person  reinstated  in  society. 

"  Git  out,  you  insolent  young  reptyle !  shouted 
the  man,  in  a  passion. 

I  retreated  precipitately,  amid  a  roar  of  laughter 
from  the  other  cells. 

"  Can't  you  keep  still  ? "  exclaimed  Harris,  with- 
drawing his  head  from  the  window. 

A  portly  watchman  usually  sat  on  a  stool  outside 
the  door  day  and  night ;  but  on  this  particular  occa- 
sion, his  services  being  required  elsewhere,  the  bride- 
well had  been  left  to  guard  itself. 

"  All  clear,"  whispered  Jack  Harris,  as  he  vanished 
through  the  aperture  and  dropped  softly  on  the 
ground  outside.  We  all  followed  him  expeditiously, 
—  Pepper  Whitcomb  and  myseK  getting  stuck  in  the 
window  for  a  moment  in  our  frantic  efforts  not  to  be 
last. 

"  Now,  boys,  everybody  for  himseK  I" 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  A  FOURTH. 


85 


CHAPTEE  YIII 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  A  FOURTH. 


HE  sun  cast  a  broad  column 
of  quivering  gold  across  the 
river  at  the  foot  of  our 
street,  just  as  I  reached 
the  doorstep  of  the  Nutter 
House.  Kitty  Collins,  with 
her  dress  tucked  about  her 
so  that  she  looked  as  if  she 
had  on  a  pair  of  calico  trou- 
sers, was  washing  off  the 
sidewalk. 

"  Arrah,  you  bad  boy  ! " 
cried  Kitty,  leaning  on  the 
mop-handle,  "  the  Capen 
has  jist  been  askin'  for  you. 
He 's  gone  up  town,  now. 
It 's  a  nate  thing  you  done 
with  my  clothes-line,  and 
it 's  me  you  may  thank  for 
gettin'  it  out  of  the  way  before  the  Capen  come 
down." 

The  kind  creature  had  hauled  in  the  rope,  and  my 
escapade  had  not  been  discovered  by  the  family ;  but 


86 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


I  knew  very  well  that  the  burning  of  the  stage-coacb, 
and  the  arrest  of  the  boys  concerned  in  the  mischief, 
were  sure  to  reach  my  grandfather's  ears  sooner  or 
later. 

"  Well,  Thomas,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  an  hour 
or  so  afterwards,  beaming  upon  me  benevolently 
across  the  breakfast-table,  "  you  did  n't  wait  to  be 
called  this  morning." 

"  No,  sir,"  I  replied,  growing  very  warm,  "  I  took  a 
little  run  up  town  to  see  what  was  going  on." 

I  did  n't  say  anything  about  the  little  run  I  took 
home  again ! 

"  They  had  quite  a  time  on  the  Square  last  night," 
remarked  Captain  Nutter,  looking  up  from  the  Kiver- 
mouth  Barnacle,  which  was  always  placed  beside  his 
coffee-cup  at  breakfast. 

I  felt  that  my  hair  was  preparing  to  stand  on  end. 

"  Quite  a  time,"  continued  my  grandfather.  "  Some 
boys  broke  into  Ezra  Wingate's  barn  and  carried  off 
the  old  stage-coach.  The  young  rascals!  I^do  be- 
lieve they 'd  burn  up  the  whole  town  if  they  had 
their  way." 

With  this  he  resumed  the  paper.  After  a  long 
silence  he  exclaimed,  "  Hullo  ! "  —  upon  which  I  near- 
ly fell  off  the  chair. 

" '  Miscreants  unknown,' "  read  my  grandfather, 
following  the  paragraph  with  his  forefinger ;  "  '  escaped 
from  the  bridewell,  leaving  no  clew  to  their  identi- 
ty, except  the  letter  H,  cut  on  one  of  the  benches.' 
'Five  dollars  reward  offered  for  the  apprehension  of 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  A  FOURTH. 


87 


the  perpetrators.'  Sho  !  I  hope  Wingate  will  catch 
them." 

I  don't  see  how  I  continued  to  live,  for  on  hearing 
this  the  breath  went  entirely  out  of  my  body.  I 
beat  a  retreat  from  the  room  as  soon  as  I  could,  and 
flew  to  the  stable  with  a  misty  intention  of  mount- 
ing Gypsy  and  escaping  from  the  place.  I  was  pon- 
dering what  steps  to  take,  when  Jack  Harris  and 
Charley  Harden  entered  the  yard. 

"  I  say,"  said  Harris,  as  blithe  as  a  lark,  "  has  old 
Wingate  been  here  ? " 

"  Been  here  ? "  I  cried,  "  I  should  hope  not ! " 

"  The  whole  thing 's  out,  you  know,"  said  Harris, 
pulling  Gypsy's  forelock  over  her  eyes  and  blowing 
playfully  into  her  nostrils. 

"  You  don't  mean  it ! "  I  gasped. 

"  Yes,  I  do,  and  we  are  to  pay  Wingate  three  dol- 
lars apiece.  He  '11  make  rather  a  good  spec  out 
of  it." 

"  But  how  did  he  discover  that  Ave  were  the  —  the 
miscreants  ? "  I  asked,  quoting  mechanically  from 
the  Eivermouth  Barnacle. 

"  Why,  he  saw  us  take  the  old  ark,  confound  him  ! 
He 's  been  trying  to  sell  it  any  time  these  ten  years. 
Now  he  has  sold  it  to  us.  When  he  found  that  we 
had  slipped  out  of  the  Meat  Market,  he  went  right  off 
and  wrote  the  advertisement  offering  five  dollars  re- 
ward ;  though  he  knew  well  enough  who  had  taken 
the  coach,  for  he  came  round  to  my  father's  house 
before  the  paper  was  printed  to  talk  the  matter  over. 


88 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


Was  n't  the  governor  mad,  though !  But  it 's  all 
settled,  I  tell  you.  We  're  to  pay  Wingate  fifteen 
dollars  for  the  old  go-cart,  which  he  wanted  to  sell 
the  other  day  for  seventy-five  cents,  and  could  n't. 
It 's  a  downright  swindle.  But  the  funny  part  of  it 
\s  to  come." 

"  O,  there 's  a  funny  part  to  it,  is  there  ? "  I  re- 
marked bitterly* 

"  Yes.  The  moment  Bill  Conway  saw  the  adver- 
tisement, he  knew  it  was  Harry  Blake  who  cut  that 
letter  H  on  the  bench ;  so  off  he  rushes  up  te  Win- 
gate  —  kind  of  him,  was  n't  it  ?  —  and  claims  the 
reward.  '  Too  late,  young  man,'  says  old  Wingate, '  the 
culprits  has  been  discovered.'  You  see  Sly-boots 
had  n't  any  intention  of  paying  that  five  dollars." 

Jack  Harris's  statement  lifted  a  weight  from  my 
bosom.  The  article  in  the  Eivermouth  Barnacle  had 
placed  the  affair  before  me  in  a  new  light.  I  had 
thoughtlessly  committed  a  grave  offence.  Though 
the  property  in  question  was  valueless,  we  were  clear- 
ly wrong  in  destroying  it.  At  the  same  time  Mr. 
Wingate  had  tacitly  sanctioned  the  act  by  not  pre' 
venting  it  when  he  might  easily  have  done  so.  He 
had  allowed  his  property  to  be  destroyed  in  order  that 
he  might  realize  a  large  profit. 

Without  waiting  to  hear  more,  I  went  straight  to 
Captain  Nutter,  and,  laying  my  remaining  three  dol- 
lars on  his  knee,  confessed  my  share  in  the  previous 
night's  transaction. 

The  Captain  heard  me  through  in  profound  silence, 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  A  FOURTH. 


89 


pocketed  the  bank-notes,  and  walked  off  without 
speaking  a  word.  He  had  punished  me  in  his  own 
whimsical  fashion  at  the  breakfast-table,  for,  at  the 
very  moment  he  was  harrowing  up  my  soul  by  read- 
ing  the  extracts  from  the  Eivermouth  Barnacle,  he 
not  only  knew  all  about  the  bonfire,  but  had  paid 
Ezra  Wingate  his  three  dollars.  Such  was .  the  du- 
plicity of  that  aged  impostor  ! 

I  think  Captain  Nutter  was  justified  in  retaining 
my  pocket-money,  as  additional  punishment,  though 
the  possession  of  it  later  in  the  day  would  have  got 
me  out  of  a  difficult  position,  as  the  reader  will  see 
further  on. 

I  returned  with  a  light  heart  and  a  large  piece  of 
punk  to  my  friends  in  the  stable-yard,  where  we  cele- 
brated the  termination  of  our  trouble  by  setting  off 
two  packs  of  fire-crackers  in  an  empty  wine-cask. 
They  made  a  prodigious  racket,  but  failed  somehow 
to  fully  express  my  feelings.  The  little  brass  pistol 
in  my  bedroom  suddenly  occurred  to  me.  It  had 
been  loaded  I  don't  know  how  many  months,  long 
before  I  left  New  Orleans,  and  now  was  the  time,  if 
ever,  to  fire  it  off.  Muskets,  blunderbusses,  and  pis- 
tols were  banging  away  lively  all  over  town,  and  the 
smell  of  gunpowder,  floating  on  the  air,  set  me  wild 
to  add  something  respectable  to  the  universal  din. 

When  the  pistol  was  produced.  Jack  Harris  ex- 
amined the  rusty  cap  and  prophesied  that  it  would 
not  explode. 

"Never  mind,"  said  I,  "let 's  try  it/' 


90 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


I  had  fired  the  pistol  once,  secretly,  in  New  Or- 
leans, and,  remembering  the  noise  it  gave  birth  to  on 
that  occasion,  I  shut  both  eyes  tight  as  I  pulled  the 
trigger.  The  hammer  clicked  on  the  cap  with  a  dull, 
dead  sound.  Then  Harris  tried  it ;  then  Charley 
Marden  ;  then  I  took  it  again,  and  after  three  or  four 
trials  was  on  the  point  of  giving  it  up  as  a  bad  job, 
when  the  obstinate  thing  went  off  with  a  tremendous 
explosion,  nearly  jerking  my  arm  from  the  socket. 
The  smoke  cleared  away,  and  there  I  stood  with  the 
stock  of  the  pistol  clutched  convulsively  in  my  hand, 
—  the  barrel,  lock,  trigger,  and  ramrod  having  van- 
ished into'  thin  air. 

"  Are  you  hurt  ? "  cried  the  boys,  in  one  breath. 
— no,"  I  replied,  dubiously,  for  the  concussion 
had  bewildered  me  a  little. 

When  I  realized  the  nature  of  the  calamity,  my 
grief  was  excessive.  I  can't  imagine  what  led  me  to 
do  so  ridiculous  a  thing,  but  I  gravely  buried  the  re- 
mains of  my  beloved  pistol  in  our  back  garden,  and 
erected  over  the  mound  a  slate  tablet  to  the  effect 
that  "  ^Ir.  Barker,  formerly  of  new  Orleans,  was  Killed 
accidentally  on  the  Fourth  of  july,  18 —  in  the  2nd 
year  of  his  Age."  *  Binny  Wallace,  arriving  on  the 
spot  just  after  the  disaster,  and  Charley  Marden  (who 
enjoyed  the  obsequies  immensely),  acted  with  me  as 
chief  mourners.  I,  for  my  part,  was  a  very  sincere  one. 

*  This  inscription  is  copied  from  a  triangular-shaped  piece  of  slate, 
still  preserved  in  the  garret  of  the  Nutter  House,  together  with  the  pi»- 
tol-but  itself,  which  was  subsequently  dug  up  for  a  post-mortem  exami- 
uation. 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  A  FOURTH.  91 


As  I  turned  away  in  a  disconsolate  mood  from  the 
garden,  Charley  Marden  remarked  that  he  should  n't 
be  surprised  if  the  pistol-butt  took  root  and  grew  into 
a  mahogany-tree  or  something.  He  said  he  once 
planted  an  old  musket-stock,  and  shortly  afterwards 
a  lot  of  shoots  sprung  up  !  J ack  Harris  laughed ;  but 
neither  I  nor  Binny  Wallace  saw  Charley's  wicked 
joke. 

We  were  now  joined  by  Pepper  Whitcomb,  Fred 
Langdon,  and  several  other  desperate  characters,  on 
their  way  to  the  Square,  which  was  always  a  busy 
place  when  public  festivities  were  going  on.  Feel- 
ing that  I  was  still  in  disgrace  with  the  Captain,  I 
thought  it  politic  to  ask  his  consent  before  accom- 
panying the  boys. 

He  gave  it  with  some  hesitation,  advising  me  to  be 
.:areful  not  to  get  in  front  of  the  firearms.  Once  he 
put  his  fingers  mechanically  into  his  vest-pocket  and 
half  drew  forth  some  dollar-bills,  then  slowly  thrust 
tuem  back  again  as  his  sense  of  justice  overcame  his 
genial  disposition.  I  guess  it  cut  the  old  gentleman 
to  the  heart  to  be  obliged  to  keep  me  out  of  my 
pjcket-money.  I  know  it  did  me.  However,  as  I 
was  passing  through  the  hall.  Miss  Abigail,  with  a 
very  severe  cast  of  countenance,  slipped  a  brand-new 
q^uarter  into  my  hand.  We  had  silver  currency  in 
those  days,  thank  Heaven! 

Great  were  the  bustle  and  confusion  on  the  Square. 
is  J  the  way,  I  don't  know  why  they  called  this  large 
open  space  a  square,  unless  because  it  was  an  oval,  — 


92 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


an  oval  formed  by  the  confluence  of  half  a  dozen 
streets,  now  thronged  by  crowds  of  smartly  dressed 
towns-people  and  country  folks ;  for  Eivermouth  on 
the  Fourth  was  the  centre  of  attraction  to  the  inhab- 
itants of  the  neighboring  villages. 

On  one  side  of  the  Square  were  twenty  or  thirty 
booths  arranged  in  a  semi-circle,  gay  with  little  flags 
and  seductive  with  lemonade,  ginger-beer,  and  seed' 
cakes.  Here  and  there  were  tables  at  which  could 
be  purchased  the  smaller  sort  of  fireworks,  such  as 
pin-wheels,  serpents,  double-headers,  and  punk  war- 
ranted not  to  go  out.  Many  of  the  adjacent  houses 
made  a  pretty  display  of  bunting,  and  across  each 
of  the  streets  opening  on  the  Square  was  an  arch 
of  spruce  and  evergreen,  blossoming  all  over  with 
patriotic  mottoes  and  paper  roses. 

It  was  a  noisy,  merry,  bewildering  scene  as  we 
came  upon  the  ground.  The  incessant  rattle  of  small 
arms,  the  booming  of  the  twelve-pounder  firing  on  the 
Mill  Dam,  and  the  silvery  clangor  of  the  church-bells 
ringing  simultaneously,  —  not  to  mention  an  ambi- 
tious brass-band  that  was  blowing  itself  to  pieces  on 
a  balcony,  —  were  enough  to  drive  one  distracted. 
We  amused  ourselves  for  an  hour  or  two,  darting  in 
and  out  among  the  crowd  and  setting  off  our  crackers. 
At  one  o'clock  the  Hon.  Hezekiah  Elkins  mounted  a 
platform  in  the  middle  of  the  Square  and  delivered 
an  oration,  to  which  his  "  feller-citizens  "  did  n't  pay 
much  attention,  having  all  they  could  do  to  dodge 
the  squibs  that  were  set  loose  upon  them  by  mis- 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  A  FOURTH.  93 


chievous  boys  stationed  on  the  surrounding  house- 
tops. 

Our  little  party  which  had  picked  up  recruits  here 
and  there,  not  being  swayed  by  eloquence,  withdrew 
to  a  booth  on  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd,  where  we 
regaled  ourselves  with  root-beer  at  two  cents  a  glass. 
I  recollect  being  much  struck  by  the  placard  sur- 
mounting this  tent :  — 


EOOT 

Beer 

Sold 

Here. 

It  seemed  to  me  the  perfection  of  pith  and  poetry. 
What  could  be  more  terse  ?  N'ot  a  word  to  spare, 
and  yet  everything  fully  expressed.  Ehyme  and 
rhythm  faultless.  It  was  a  delightful  poet  who  made 
those  verses.  As  for  the  beer  itself,  —  that,  I  think, 
must  have  been  made  from  the  root  of  all  evil !  A 
single  glass  of  it  insured  an  uninterrupted  pain  for 
twenty-four  hours. 

The  influence  of  my  liberality  working  on  Charley 
Harden,  —  for  it  was  I  who  paid  for  the  beer,  —  he 
presently  invited  us  all  to  take  an  ice-cream  with 
him  at  Pettingil's  saloon.  Pettingil  was  the  Del- 
monico  of  Eivermouth.  He  furnished  ices  and  con- 
fectionery for  aristocratic  balls  and  parties,  and  did  n't 
disdain  to  officiate  as  leader  of  the  orchestra  at  the 
same ;  for  Pettingil  played  on  the  violin,  as  Pepper 
Whitcomb  described  it,  "  like  Old  Scratch." 


94 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


Pettingil's  confectionery  store  was  on  the  corner 
of  Willow  and  High  Streets.  The  saloon,  separated 
from  the  shop  by  a  flight  of  three  steps  leading  to  a 
door  hung  with  faded  red  drapery,  had  about  it  an 
air  of  mystery  and  seclusion  quite  delightful.  Four 
windows,  also  draped,  faced  the  side-street,  affording 
an  unobstructed  view  of  Marm  Hatch's  back  yard, 
where  a  number  of  inexplicable  garments  on  a  clothes- 
line were  always  to  be  seen  careering  in  the  wind. 

There  was  a  lulj.  just  then  in  the  ice-cream  busi- 
ness, it  being  dinner-time,  and  we  found  the  saloon 
unoccupied.  When  we  had  seated  ourselves  around 
the  largest  marble-topped  table,  Charley  Harden  in 
a  manly  voice  ordered  twelve  sixpenny  ice-creams, 
"  strawberry  and  verneller  mixed." 

It  was  a  magnificent  sight,  those  twelve  chilly 
glasses  entering  the  room  on  a  waiter,  the  red  and 
white  custard  rising  from  each  glass  like  a  church- 
steeple,  and  the  spoon-handle  shooting  up  from  the 
apex  like  a  spire.  I  doubt  if  a  person  of  the  nicest 
palate  could  have  distinguished,  with  his  eyes  shut, 
which  was  the  vanilla  and  which  the  strawberry; 
but  if  I  could  at  this  moment  obtain  a  cream  tasting 
as  that  did,  I  would  give  five  dollars  for  a  very  small 
quantity. 

We  fell  to  with  a  will,  and  so  evenly  balanced 
were  our  capabilities  that  we  finished  our  creams 
together,  the  spoons  clinking  in  the  glasses  like  one 
spoon. 

"  Let  *s  have  some  more  ! "  cried  Charley  Harden, 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  A  FOURTH. 


95 


with  the  air  of  Aladdin  ordering  up  a  fresh  hogshead 
of  pearls  and  rubies.  "  Tom  Bailey,  tell  Pettingil  to 
send  in  another  round." 

Could  I  credit  my  ears  ?  I  looked  at  him  to  see 
if  he  were  in  earnest.  He  meant  it.  In  a  moment 
more  I  was  leaning  over  the  counter  giving  directions 
for  a  second  supply.  Thinking  it  would  make  no 
difference  to  such  a  gorgeous  young  sybarite  as  Mar- 
den,  I  took  the  liberty  of  ordering  ninepenny  creams 
this  time. 


sold! 


96 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


On  returning  to  the  saloon,  what  was  my  horror  at 
finding  it  empty  ! 

There  were  the  twelve  cloudy  glasses,  standing  in 
a  circle  on  the  sticky  marble  slab,  and  not  a  boy  to 
be  seen.  A  pair  of  hands  letting  go  their  hold  on 
the  window-sill  outside  explained  matters.  I  had 
had  been  made  a  victim. 

I  could  n't  stay  and  face  Pettingil,  whose  peppery 
temper  was  well  known  among  the  boys.  I  had  n't 
a  cent  in  the  world  to  appease  him.  What  should  I 
do  ?  I  heard  the  clink  of  approaching  glasses,  —  the 
ninepenny  creams.  I  rushed  to  the  nearest  window. 
It  was  only  five  feet  to  the  ground.  I  threw  myself 
out  as  if  I  had  been  an  old  hat. 

Landing  on  my  feet,  I  fled  breathlessly  down  High 
Street,  through  Willow,  and  was  turning  into  Brier- 
wood  Place  when  the  sound  of  several  voices,  calling 
to  me  in  distress,  stopped  my  progress. 

"  Look  out,  you  fool !  the  mine  !  the  mine  ! "  yelled 
the  warning  voices. 

Several  men  and  boys  were  standing  at  the  head 
of  the  street,  making  insane  gestures  to  me  to  avoid 
something.  But  I  saw  no  mine,  only  in  the  middle 
of  the  road  in  front  of  me  was  a  common  flour-bar- 
rel, which,  as  I  gazed  at  it,  suddenly  rose  into  the 
air  with  a  terrific  explosion.  I  felt  myself  thrown 
violently  off  my  feet.  I  remember  nothing  else, 
excepting  that,  as  I  went  up,  I  caught  a  momentary 
glimpse  of  Ezra  Wingate  leering  through  his  shop 
window  like  an  avenging  spirit. 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  A  FOURTH. 


97 


The  mine  that  had  wrought  me  woe  was  not  prop- 
erly a  mine  at  all,  but  merely  a  few  ounces  of  powder 
placed  under  an  empty  keg  or  barrel  and  fired  with 
a  slow-match.  Boys  who  did  n't  happen  to  have 
pistols  or  cannon  generally  burnt  their  powder  in 
this  fashion. 

For  an  account  of  what  followed  I  am  indebted  to 
hearsay,  for  I  was  insensible  when  the  people  picked 
me  up  and  carried  me  home  on  a  shutter  borrowed 
from  the  proprietor  of  Pettingil's  saloon.  I  was  sup- 
posed to  be  killed,  but  happily  (happily  for  me  at 
least)  I  was  merely  stunned.  I  lay  in  a  semi-uncon- 
scious state  until  eight  o'clock  that  night,  when  I 
attempted  to  speak.  Miss  Abigail,  who  watched  by 
the  bedside,  put  her  ear  down  to  my  lips  and  was 
saluted  with  these  remarkable  words  :  — 

"  Strawberry  and  verneller  mixed  ! " 

"  Mercy  on  us !  what  is  the  boy  saying  ? "  cried 
Miss  Abigail. 

"  ROOTBEERSOLDHERE  !" 


98  THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


CHAPTEE  IX. 

I    BECOME    AN    R.  M.  C. 

N  the  course  of  ten  days  I 
recovered  sufficiently  from 
my  injuries  to  attend  school, 
where,  for  a  little  while,  I 
was  looked  upon  as  a  hero, 
on  account  of  having  been 
blown  up.  What  don't  we 
make  a  hero  of  ?  The  dis- 
traction which  prevailed  in 
the  classes  the  week  preced- 
ing the  Fourth  had  subsided, 
and  nothing  remained  to  in- 
dicate the  recent  festivities, 
excepting  a  noticeable  want 
of  eyebrows  on  the  part  of 
Pepper  Whitcomb  and  my- 
self. 

In  August  we  had  two 
weeks'  vacation.  It  was 
about  this  time  that  I  became  a  member  of  the 
Bivermouth  Centipedes,  a  secret  society  composed 
of  twelve  of  the  Temple  Grammar  School  boys. 
This  was  an  honor  to  which  I  had  long  asj)ired,  but, 


I  BECOME  AN  R.  M.  C. 


99 


being  a  new  boy,  I  was  not  admitted  to  the  fraternity 
until  my  character  had  fully  developed  itself 

It  was  a  very  select  society,  the  object  of  which  I 
never  fathomed,  though  I  was  an  active  member  of  the 
body  during  the  remainder  of  my  residence  at  Eiver- 
mouth,  and  at  one  time  held  the  onerous  position 
of  r.  C,  —  First  Centipede.  Each  of  the  elect  wore 
a  copper  cent  (some  occult  association  being  estab- 
lished between  a  cent  apiece  and  a  centipede  ! )  sus- 
pended by  a  string  round  his  neck.  The  medals  were 
worn  next  the  skin,  and  it  was  while  bathing  one  day 
at  Grave  Point,  with  Jack  Harris  and  Fred  Langdon, 
that  I  had  my  curiosity  roused  to  the  highest  pitch 
by  a  sight  of  these  singular  emblems.  As  soon  as  I 
ascertained  the  existence  of  a  boys'  club,  of  course  I 
was  ready  to  die  to  join  it.  And  eventually  I  was 
allowed  to  join. 

The  initiation  ceremony  took  place  in  Fred  Lang- 
don's  barn,  where  I  was  submitted  to  a  series  of  trials 
not  calculated  to  soothe  the  nerves  of  a  timorous  boy. 
Before  being  led  to  the  Grotto  of  Enchantment, — 
such  was  the  modest  title  given  to  the  loft  over  my 
friend's  wood-house,  —  my  hands  were  securely  pin- 
ioned, and  my  eyes  covered  with  a  thick  silk  hand- 
kerchief At  the  head  of  the  stairs  I  was  told  in  an 
unrecognizable,  husky  voice,  that  it  was  not  yet  too 
late  to  retreat  if  I  felt  myself  physically  too  weak  to 
undergo  the  necessary  tortures.  I  replied  that  I  was 
not  too  weak,  in  a  tone  which  I  intended  to  be  reso- 
lute, but  which,  in  spite  of  me,  seemed  to  come  from 
the  pit  of  my  stomach. 


100 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


"  It  is  well ! "  said  the  husky  voice. 

I  did  not  feel  so  sure  about  that;  but,  having  made 
up  my  mind  to  be  a  Centipede,  a  Centipede  I  was 
bound  to  be.  Other  boys  had  passed  through  the  or- 
deal and  lived,  why  should  not  I  ? 

A  prolonged  silence  followed  this  preliminary  ex- 
amination, and  I  was  wondering  w^hat  w^ould  come 
next,  when  a  pistol  fired  off  close  by  my  ear  deafened 
me  for  a  moment.  The  unknown  voice  then  directed 
me  to  take  ten  steps  forward  and  stop  at  the  word 
halt.    I  took  ten  steps,  and  halted. 

"  Stricken  mortal,"  said  a  second  husky  voice,  more 
husky,  if  possible,  than  the  first,  "if  you  had  ad- 
vanced another  inch,  you  would  have  disappeared 
down  an  abyss  three  thousand  feet  deep  !  " 

I  naturally  shrunk  back  at  this  friendly  piece  of 
information.  A  prick  from  some  two-pronged  instru- 
ment, evidently  a  pitchfork,  gently  checked  my  re- 
treat. I  w^as  then  conducted  to  the  brink  of  several 
other  precipices,  and  ordered  to  step  over  many  dan- 
gerous chasms,  where  the  result  would  have  been  in- 
stant death  if  I  had  committed  the  least  mistake.  I 
have  neglected  to  say  that  my  movements  were  ac- 
companied by  dismal  groans  from  different  parts  of 
the  grotto. 

Finally,  I  was  led  up  a  steep  plank  to  what  ap- 
peared to  me  an  incalculable  height.  Here  I  stood 
breathless  while  the  by-laws  were  read  aloud.  A 
more  extraordinary  code  of  laws  never  came  from  the 
brain  of  man    The  penalties  attached  to  the  abject 


I  BECOME  AN  R.  M.  C. 


101 


being  who  should  reveal  any  of  the  secrets  of  the 
society  were  enough  to  make  the  blood  run  cold.  A 
second  pistol-shot  was  heard,  the  something  I  stood 
on  sunk  with  a  crash  beneath  my  feet,  and  I  fell  two 
miles,  as  nearly  as  I  could  compute  it.  At  the  same 
instant  the  handkerchief  was  whisked  from  my  eyes, 
and  I  found  myself  standing  in  an  empty  hogshead 


THE  CENTIPEDES. 


surrounded  by  twelve  masked  figures  fantastically 
dressed.    One  of  the  conspirators  was  really  appall- 


102 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


ing  with  a  tin  sauce-pan  on  his  head,  and  a  tiger-skin 
sleigh-robe  thrown  over  his  shoulders.  I  scarcely 
need  say  that  there  were  no  vestiges  to  be  seen  of 
the  fearful  gulfs  over  which  I  had  passed  so  cau- 
tiously. My  ascent  had  been  to  the  top  of  the  hogs- 
head, and  my  descent  to  the  bottom  thereof  Holding 
one  another  by  the  hand,  and  chanting  a  low  dirge, 
the  Mystic  Twelve  revolved  about  me.  This  con- 
cluded the  ceremony.  With  a  merry  shout  the  boys 
threw  off  their  masks,  and  I  was  declared  a  regu- 
larly installed  member  of  the  R.  M.  C. 

I  afterwards  had  a  good  deal  of  sport  out  of  the 
club,  for  these  initiations,  as  you  may  imagine,  were 
sometimes  very  comical  spectacles,  especially  when 
the  aspirant  for  centipedal  honors  happened  to  be  of 
a  timid  disposition.  If  he  showed  the  slightest  ter- 
ror, he  was  certain  to  be  tricked  unmercifully.  One 
of  our  subsequent  devices  —  a  humble  invention  of 
my  own  —  was  to  request  the  blindfolded  candidate 
to  put  out  his  tongue,  whereupon  the  First  Centipede 
would  say,  in  a  low  tone,  as  if  not  intended  for  the 
ear  of  the  victim,  "Diabolus,  fetch  me  the  red-hot 
iron  ! "  The  expedition  with  which  that  tongue 
would  disappear  was  simply  ridiculous. 

Our  meetings  were  held  in  various  barns,  at  no 
stated  periods,  but  as  circumstances  suggested.  Any 
member  had  a  right  to  call  a  meeting.  Each  boy 
who  failed  to  report  himself  was  fined  one  cent. 
Whenever  a  member  had  reasons  for  thinking  that 
another  member  would  be  unable  to  attend,  he  called 


I  BECOME  AN  R.  M.  C. 


103 


a  meeting.  For  instance,  immediately  on  learning 
the  death  of  Harry  Blake's  great-grandfather,  I  is- 
sued a  call.  By  these  simple  and  ingenious  meas- 
ures we  kept  our  treasury  in  a  flourishing  condition, 
sometimes  having  on  hand  as  much  as  a  dollar  and 
a  quarter. 

I  have  said  that  the  society  had  no  especial  object. 
It  is  true,  there  was  a  tacit  understanding  among  us 
that  the  Centipedes  were  to  stand  by  one  another  on 
all  occasions,  though  I  don't  remember  that  they  did ; 
but  further  than  this  we  had  no  purpose,  unless  it 
was  to  accomplish  as  a  body  the  same  amount  of 
mischief  which  we  were  sure  to  do  as  individuals. 
To  mystify  the  staid  and  slow-going  Eivermouthians 
was  our  frequent  pleasure.  Several  of  our  pranks 
won  us  such  a  reputation  among  the  townsfolk, 
that  we  were  credited  with  having  a  large  finger  in 
whatever  went  amiss  in  the  place. 

One  morning,  about  a  week  after  my  admission 
into  the  secret  order,  the  quiet  citizens  awoke  to  find 
that  the  sign-boards  of  all  the  principal  streets  had 
changed  places  during  the  night.  People  who  went 
trustfully  to  sleep  in  Currant  Square  opened  their 
eyes  in  Honeysuckle  Terrace.  Jones's  Avenue  at 
the  north  end  had  suddenly  become  Walnut  Street, 
and  Peanut  Street  was  nowhere  to  be  found.  Con- 
fusion reigned.  The  town  authorities  took  the  mat- 
ter in  hand  without  delay,  and  six  of  the  Temple 
Grammar  School  boys  were  summoned  to  appear  be- 
fore Justice  Clapham. 


104 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


Having  tearfully  disclaimed  to  my  grandfather  all 
knowledge  of  the  transaction,  I  disappeared  from  the 
family  circle,  and  was  not  apprehended  until  late  in 
the  afternoon,  when  the  Captain  dragged  me  igno- 
miniously  from  the  haymow  and  conducted  me,  more 
dead  than  alive,  to  the  office  of  Justice  Clapham, 
Here  I  encountered  five  other  pallid  culprits,  who 
had  been  fished  out  of  divers  coal-bins,  garrets,  and 
chicken-coops,  to  answer  the  demands  of  the  out- 
raged laws.  (Charley  Harden  had  hidden  himself 
in  a  pile  of  gravel  behind  his  father's  house,  and 
looked  like  a  recently  exhumed  mummy.) 

There  was  not  the  least  evidence  against  us ; 
and,  indeed,  we  were  wholly  innocent  of  the  offence. 
The  trick,  as  was  afterwards  proved,  had  been  played 
by  a  party  of  soldiers  stationed  at  the  fort  in  the 
harbor.  We  were  indebted  for  our  arrest  to  Master 
Conway,  who  had  slyly  dropped  a  hint,  within  the 
hearing  of  Selectman  Mudge,  to  the  effect  that 
"  young  Bailey  and  his  five  cronies  could  tell  some- 
thing about  them  signs."  When  he  was  called  upon 
to  make  good  his  assertion,  he  was  considerably  more 
terrified  than  the  Centipedes,  though  they  were  ready 
to  sink  into  their  shoes. 

At  our  next  meeting  it  was  unanimously  resolved 
that  Conway's  animosity  should  not  be  quietly  sub- 
mitted to.  He  had  sought  to  inform  against  us  in 
the  stage-coach  business ;  he  had  volunteered  to  carry 
Pettingil's  "  little  bill "  for  twenty-four  ice-creams  to 
Charley  Marden's  father ;  and  now  he  had  caused  ua 


I  BECOME  AN  R.  M.  C. 


105 


to  be  arraigned  before  Justice  Clapham  on  a  charge 
equally  groundless  and  painful.  After  much  noisy 
discussion  a  plan  of  retaliation  was  agreed  upon. 

There  was  a  certain  slim,  mild  apothecary  in  the 
town,  by  the  name  of  Meeks.  It  was  generally 
given  out  that  Mr.  Meeks  had  a  vague  desire  to  get 
married,  but,  being  a  shy  and  timorous  youth,  lacked 
the  moral  courage  to  do  so.  It  was  also  well  known 
that  the  Widow  Conway  had  not  buried  her  heart 
with  the  late  lamented.  As  to  her  shyness,  that  was 
not  so  clear.  Indeed,  her  attentions  to  Mr.  Meeks, 
whose  mother  she  might  have  been,  were  of  a  nature 
not  to  be  misunderstood,  and  were  not  misunderstood 
by  any  one  but  Mr.  Meeks  himself. 

The  widow  carried  on  a  dress-making  establish- 
ment at  her  residence  on  the  corner  opposite  Meeks's 
drug-store,  and  kept  a  wary  eye  on  all  the  young 
ladies  from  Miss  Dorothy  Gibbs's  Female  Institute 
who  patronized  the  shop  for  soda-water,  acid-drops, 
and  slate-pencils.  In  the  afternoon  the  widow  was 
usually  seen  seated,  smartly  dressed,  at  her  window 
up  stairs,  casting  destructive  glances  across  the  street, 
—  the  artificial  roses  in  her  cap  and  her  whole  lan- 
guishing manner  saying  as  plainly  as  a  label  on  a 
prescription,  "  To  be  Taken  Immediately ! "  But  Mr. 
Meeks  did  n't  take. 

The  lady's  fondness  and  the  gentleman's  blindness 
were  topics  ably  handled  at  every  sewing-circle  in 
the  town.  It  was  through  these  two  luckless  indi- 
viduals that  we  proposed  to  strike  a  blow  at  the  com- 


106 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


inon  enemy.  To  kill  less  than  three  birds  with  one 
stone  did  not  suit  our  sanguinary  purpose.  AYe  dis- 
liked the  widow  not  so  much  for  her  sentimentality 
as  for  being  the  mother  of  Bill  Conway ;  we  disliked 
Mr.  Meeks,  not  because  he  was  insipid,  like  his  own 
syrups,  but  because  the  widow  loved  him ;  Bill  Con- 
way we  hated  for  himself. 

Late  one  dark  Saturday  night  in  September  we 
carried  our  plan  into  effect.  On  the  following  morn- 
ing, as  the  orderly  citizens  wended  their  way  to 
church  past  the  widow's  abode,  their  sober  faces  re- 
laxed at  beholding  over  her  front  door  the  well- 
known  gilt  Mortar  and  Pestle  which  usually  stood 
on  the  top  of  a  pole  on  the  opposite  corner ;  while 
the  passers  on  that  side  of  the  street  were  equally 
amused  and  scandalized  at  seeing  a  placard  bearing 
the  following  announcement  tacked  to  the  druggist's 
window-shutters :  — 


The  naughty  cleverness  of  the  joke  (which  I  should 
be  sorry  to  defend)  was  recognized  at  once.  It 
spread  like  wildfire  over  the  town,  and,  though  the 
mortar  and  the  placard  were  speedily  removed,  our 
triumph  was  complete.  The  whole  community  was 
on  the  broad  grin,  and  our  participation  in  the  affair 
seemingly  unsuspected. 

It  was  those  wicked  soldiers  at  the  fort 


I  FIGHT  CONWAY. 


107 


CHAPTEE  X. 


I    FIGHT  CONWAY. 


HEEE    was    one  person, 

however,  who  cherished  a 
strong  suspicion  that  the 
Centipedes  had  had  a  hand 
in  the  business ;  and  that 
person  was  Conway.  His 
red  hair  seemed  to  change 
to  a  livelier  red,  and  his 
sallow  cheeks  to  a  deeper 
sallow,  as  we  glanced  at 
him  stealtliiiy  over  the  tops 
of  our  slates  the  next  day 
in  school.  He  knew  we 
were  watching  him,  and 
made  sundry  mouths  and 
scowled  in  the  most  threat- 
ening way  over  his  sums. 

Conway  had  an  accom- 
plishment peculiarly  his 
own,  —  that  of  throwing  his  thumbs  out  of  joint  at 
will.  Sometimes  while  absorbed  in  study,  or  on 
becoming  nervous  at  recitation,  he  performed  the  feat 
unconsciously.    Throughout  this  entire  morning  hi*» 


108 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


thumbs  were  observed  to  be  in  a  chronic  state  of  dis- 
location, indicating  great  mental  agitation  on  the  part 
of  the  owner.  We  fuUy  expected  an  outbreak  from 
him  at  recess  ;  but  the  intermission  passed  off  tran* 
quilly,  somewhat  to  our  disappointment. 

At  the  close  of  the  afternoon  session  it  happened 
that  Binny  Wallace  and  myseK,  having  got  swamped 
in  our  Latin  exercise,  were  detained  in  school  for  the 
purpose  of  refreshing  our  memories  with  a  page  of 
Mr.  Andrews's  perplexing  irregular  verbs.  Binny 
Wallace  finishing  his  task  first,  was  dismissed.  I  fol- 
lowed shortly  after,  and,  on  stepping  into  the  play- 
ground, saw  my  little  friend  plastered,  as  it  were,  up 
against  the  fence,  and  Conway  standing  in  front  of 
him  ready  to  deliver  a  blow  on  the  upturned,  unpro- 
tected face,  whose  gentleness  would,  have  stayed  any 
arm  but  a  coward's. 

Seth  Eodgers,  with  both  hands  in  his  pockets,  was 
leaning  against  the  pump  lazily  enjoying  the  sport ; 
but  on  seeing  me  sweep  across  the  yard,  whirling  my 
strap  of  books  in  the  air  like  a  sling,  he  called  out 
lustily,  "  Lay  low,  Conway  !  here 's  young  Bailey  ! " 

Conway  turned  just  in  time  to  catch  on  his  shoul- 
der the  blow  intended  for  his  head.  He  reached 
forward  one  of  his  long  arms  —  he  had  arms  hke  a 
windmill,  that  boy  —  and,  grasping  me  by  the  hair, 
tore  out  quite  a  respectable  handful.  The  tears  flew 
to  my  eyes,  but  they  were  not  the  tears  of  defeat  j 
they  were  merely  the  involuntary  tribute  which  na- 
ture paid  to  the  departed  tresses. 


I  FIGHT  CONWAY. 


109 


In  a  second  my  little  jacket  lay  on  the  ground, 
and  I  stood  on  guard,  resting  lightly  on  my  right  kg 
and  keeping  my  eye  fixed  steadily  on  Conway's,  —  in 
all  of  which  I  was  faithfully  following  the  instruc- 
tions of  Phil  Adams,  whose  father  subscribed  to  a 
sporting  journal. 

Conway  also  threw  himself  into  a  defensive  atti- 
tude, and  there  we  were,  glaring  at  each  other,  mo- 
tionless, neither  of  us  disposed  to  risk  an  attack,  but 
both  on  the  alert  to  resist  one.  There  is  no  telling 
how  long  we  might  have  remained  in  that  absurd 
position,  had  we  not  been  interrupted. 

It  was  a  custom  with  the  larger  pupils  to  return  to 
the  play-ground  after  school,  and  play  base-ball  until 
sundown.  The  town  authorities  had  prohibited  ball- 
playing  on  the  Square,  and,  there  being  no  other 
available  place,  the  boys  feU.  back  perforce  on  the 
school-yard.  Just  at  this  crisis  a  dozen  or  so  of  the 
Templars  entered  the  gate,  and,  seeing  at  a  glance 
the  belligerent  status  of  Conway  and  myself,  dropped 
bat  and  ball,  and  rushed  to  the  spot  where  we  stood. 

"  Is  it  a  fight  ? "  asked  Phil  Adams,  who  saw  by 
our  freshness  that  we  had  not  yet  got  to  work. 

"  Yes,  it 's  a  fight,"  I  answered,  "  unless  Conway 
will  ask  Wallace's  pardon,  promise  never  to  hector 
me  in  future,  —  and  put  back  my  hair ! " 

This  last  condition  was  rather  a  staggerer. 

"  I  sha'  n't  do  nothing  of  the  sort,"  said  Conway, 
sulkily. 

"  Then  the  thing  must  go  on,"  said  Adams,  with 


no 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


dignity.  "  Eoclgers,  as  I  understand  it,  is  your  sec 
ond,  Conway  ?  Bailey,  come  here.  What 's  the  row 
about  ? " 

"  He  was  thrashing  Binny  Wallace." 

"  No,  I  was  n't,"  interrupted  Conway ;  "  but  I  was 
going  to,  because  he  knows  who  put  Meeks's  mortar 
over  our  door.  And  I  know  well  enough  who  did  it ; 
it  was  that  sneaking  little  mulatter  ! "  —  pointing  at 
me. 

"  0,  by  George  ! "  I  cried,  reddening  at  the  insult. 

"  Cool  is  the  word,"  said  Adams,  as  he  bound  a 
handkerchief  round  my  head,  and  carefully  tucked 
away  the  long  straggling  locks  that  offered  a  tempt- 
ing advantage  to  the  enemy.  "  Who  ever  heard  of 
a  fellow  with  such  a  head  of  hair  going  into  action  ! " 
muttered  Phil,  twitching  the  handkerchief  to  ascer- 
tain if  it  were  securely  tied.  He  then  loosened  my 
gallowses  (braces),  and  buckled  them  tightly  above 
my  hips.    "  N'ow,  then,  bantam,  never  say  die  ! " 

Conway  regarded  these  business-like  preparations 
with  evident  misgiving,  for  he  called  Eodgers  to  his 
side,  and  had  himself  arrayed  in  a  similar  manner, 
though  his  hair  was  cropped  so  close  that  you  could 
n't  have  taken  hold  of  it  with  a  pair  of  tweezers. 

"  Is  your  man  ready  ? "  asked  Phil  Adams,  address- 
ing Eodgers. 

"  Eeady !" 

^'Keep  your  back  to  the  gate,  Tom,"  whispered 
Phil  in  my  ear,  "  and  you  '11  have  the  sun  in  his  eyes." 
Behold  us  once  more  face  to  face,  like  David  and 


I  FIGHT  CONWAY. 


Ill 


the  Philistine.  Look  at  us  as  long  as  you  may ;  for 
this  is  all  you  shall  see  of  the  combat.  According 
to  my  thinking,  the  hospital  teaches  a  better  lesson 
than  the  battle-field.  I  will  tell  you  -about  my  black 
eye,  and  my  swollen  lip,  if  you  will ;  but  not  a  word 
of  the  fight. 

You  '11  get  no  description  of  it  from  me,  simply 
because  I  think  it  would  prove  very  poor  reading, 
and  not  because  I  consider  my  revolt  against  Con- 
way's tyranny  unjustifiable. 

I  had  borne  Conway's  persecutions  for  many  months 
with  lamb-like  patience.  I  might  have  shielded  my- 
self by  appealing  to  Mr.  Grimshaw ;  but  no  boy  in 
the  Temple  Grammar  School  could  do  that  without 
losing  caste.  Whether  this  was  just  or  not  does  n't 
matter  a  pin,  since  it  was  so,  —  a  traditionary  law  of 
the  place.  The  personal  inconvenience  I  suffered 
from  my  tormentor  was  nothing  to  the  pain  he  in- 
flicted on  me  indirectly  by  his  persistent  cruelty  to 
little  Binny  Wallace.  I  should  have  lacked  the  spirit 
of  a  hen  if  I  had  not  resented  it  finally.  I  am  glad 
that  I  faced  Conway,  and  asked  no  favors,  and  got 
rid  of  him  forever.  I  am  glad  that  Phil  Adams 
taught  me  to  box,  and  I  say  to  all  youngsters :  Learn 
to  box,  to  ride,  to  pull  an  oar,  and  to  swim.  The 
occasion  may  come  round,  when  a  decent  proficiency 
in  one  or  the  rest  of  these  accomplishments  will  be 
of  service  to  you. 

In  one  of  the  best  books*  ever  written  for  boys 
are  these  words :  — 

^      *  "  Tom  Brown's  School  Days  at  Rugby." 


112 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


"  Learn  to  box,  then,  as  you  learn  to  play  cricket 
and  football.  Not  one  of  you  will  be  the  worse,  but 
very  much  the  better,  for  learning  to  box  well.  Should 
you  never  have  to  use  it  in  earnest,  there 's  no  exer- 
cise in  the  world  so  good  for  the  temper,  and  for  the 
muscles  of  the  back  and  legs. 

"  As  for  fighting,  keep  out  of  it,  if  you  can,  by  all 
means.  When  the  time  comes,  if  ever  it  should, 
that  you  have  to  say  '  Yes '  or  *  No '  to  a  challenge  to 
fight,  say  '  No '  if  you  can,  —  only  take  care  you 
make  it  plain  to  yourself  why  you  say  '  No.'  It 's  a 
proof  of  the  highest  courage,  if  done  from  true  Chris- 
tian motives :  It 's  quite  right  and  justifiable,  if 
done  from  a  simple  aversion  to  physical  pain  and 
danger.  But  don't  say  '  No '  because  you  fear  a  lick- 
ing and  say  or  think  it 's  because  you  fear  God,  for 
that 's  neither  Christian  nor  honest.  And  if  you  do 
fight,  fight  it  out ;  and  don't  give  in  while  you  can 
stand  and  see." 

And  don't  give  in  when  you  can't !  say  I.  For  I 
could  stand  very  little,  and  see  not  at  all  (having 
pummelled  the  school-pump  for  the  last  twenty 
seconds),  when  Conway  retired  from  the  field.  As 
Phil  Adams  stepped  up  to  shake  hands  with  me,  he 
received  a  telling  blow  in  the  stomach ;  for  all  the 
fight  was  not  out  of  me  yet,  and  I  mistook  him  for  a 
new  adversary. 

Convinced  of  my  error,  I  accepted  his  congratula- 
tions, with  those  of  the  other  boys,  blandly  and 
blindly.    I  remember  that  Binny  Wallace  wanted 


I  FIGHT  CONWAY.  118 


to  give  me  his  silver  pencil-case.  The  gentle  soul 
had  stood  throughout  the  contest  with  his  face  turned 
to  the  fence,  suffering  untold  agony. 

A  good  wash  at  the  pump,  and  a  cold  key  applied 
to  my  eye,  refreshed  me  amazingly.  Escorted  by 
two  or  three  of  the  schoolfellows,  I  walked  home 
through  the  pleasant  autumn  twilight,  battered  but 
triumphant.  As  I  went  along,  my  cap  cocked  on 
one  side  to  keep  the  chilly  air  from  my  eye,  I  felt 
that  I  was  not  only  following  my  nose,  but  following 
it  so  closely,  that  I  was  in  some  danger  of  treading 
on  it.  I  seemed  to  have  nose  enough  for  the  whole 
party.  My  left  cheek,  also,  was  puffed  out  like  a 
dumpling.  I  could  n't  help  saying  to  myself,  "  If 
this  is  victory,  how  about  that  other  fellow  ? " 

"  Tom,"  said  Harry  Blake,  hesitating. 

"Well?" 

"Did  you  see  Mr.  Grimshaw  looking  out  of  the 
recitation-room  window  just  as  we  left  the  yard  ? " 
"  No ;  was  he,  though  ? " 
"  I  am  sure  of  it." 

"  Then  he  must  have  seen  all  the  row." 
"  Should  n't  wonder." 

"  No,  he  did  n't,"  broke  in  Adams,  "  or  he  would 
have  stopped  it  short  metre  ;  but  I  guess  he  saw  you 
pitching  into  the  pump,  —  which  you  did  uncom- 
monly strong,  —  and  of  course  he  smelt  mischief 
directly." 

"  Well,  it  can't  be  helped  now,"  I  reflected. 
.  "  —  As  the  monkey  said  when  he  fell  out  of  the 


114 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


coco8u-nut  tree,"  added  Charley  Harden,  trying  to 
make  me  laugh. 

It  was  early  candle-light  when  we  reached  the 
house.  Miss  Abigail,  opening  the  front  door,  started 
back  at  my  hilarious  appearance.  I  tried  to  smile 
upon  her  sweetly,  but  the  smile,  rippling  over  my 
swollen  cheek,  and  dying  away  like  a  spent  wave  on 
my  nose,  produced  an  expression  of  which  Miss  Abi- 
gail declared  she  had  never  seen  the  like  excepting 
on  the  face  of  a  Chinese  idol. 

She  hustled  me  unceremoniously  into  the  presence 
of  my  grandfather  in  the  sitting-room.  Captain  Nut- 
ter, as  the  recognized  professional  warrior  of  our 
family,  could  not  consistently  take  me  to  task  for 
fighting  Conway  ;  nor  was  he  disposed  to  do  so ;  for 
the  Captain  was  well  aware  of  the  long-continued 
provocation  I  had  endured. 

"  Ah,  you  rascal ! "  cried  the  old  gentleman,  after 
hearing  my  story,  "just  like  me  when  I  was  youngs 
■ —  always  in  one  kind  of  trouble  or  another.  I  be- 
lieve it  runs  in  the  family." 

"  I  think,"  said  Miss  Abigail,  without  the  faintest 
expression  on  her  countenance,  "  that  a  table-spoonx 
ful  of  hot-dro  — " 

The  Captain  interrupted  Miss  Abigail  peremptorily, 
directing  her  to  make  a  shade  out  of  card-board  and 
black  silk,  to  tie  over  my  eye.  Miss  Abigail  must 
have  been  possessed  vdth.  the  idea  that  I  had  taken 
up  pugilism  as  a  profession,  for  she  turned  out  no 
fewer  than  six  of  these  blinders. 


I  FIGHT  CONWAY. 


115 


"  They  '11  be  handy  to  have  in  the  house,"  says  Miss 
Abigail,  grimly. 

Of  course,  so  great  a  breach  of  discipline  was  not 
to  be  passed  over  by  Mr.  Grimshaw.  He  had,  as  we 
suspected,  witnessed  the  closing  scene  of  the  fight 
from  the  school-room  window,  and  the  next  morning, 
after  prayers,  I  was  not  wholly  unprepared  when 
Master  Conway  and  myself  were  called  up  to  the 
desk  for  examination.  Conway,  with  a  piece  of  court- 
plaster  in  the  shape  of  a  Maltese  cross  on  his  right 
cheek,  and  I  with  the  silk  patch  over  my  left  eye, 
caused  a  general  titter  through  the  room. 

"  Silence  ! "  said  Mr.  Grimshaw,  sharply. 

As  the  reader  is  already  familiar  with  the  leading 
points  in  the  case  of  Bailey  versus  Conway,  I  shall 
not  report  the  trial  further  than  to  say  that  Adams, 
Marden,  and  several  other  pupils  testified  to  the  fact 
that  Conway  had  imposed  on  me  ever  since  my  first 
day  at  the  Temple  School.  Their  evidence  also  went 
to  show  that  Conway  was  a  quarrelsome  character 
generally.  Bad  for  Conway.  Seth  Eodgers,  on  the 
part  of  his  friend,  proved  that  I  had  struck  the  first 
blow.    That  was  bad  for  me. 

"  If  you  please,  sir,"  said  Binny  Wallace,  holding 
up  his  hand  for  permission  to  speak,  "  Bailey  did  n't 
fight  on  his  own  account ;  he  fought  on  my  account, 
and,  if  you  please,  sir,  I  am  the  boy  to  be  blamed, 
for  I  was  the  cause  of  the  trouble." 

This  drew  out  the  story  of  Conway's  harsh  treat- 
ment of  the  smaller  boys.  As  Binny  related  the  wrongs 


116 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


of  his  playfellows,  saying  very  little  of  his  own  griev- 
ances, I  noticed  that  Mr.  Grimshaw's  hand,  unknown 
to  himself  perhaps,  rested  lightly  from  time  to  time 
on  Wallace's  sunny  hair.  The  examination  finished, 
Mr.  Grimshaw  leaned  on  the  desk  thoughtfully  for  a 
moment,  and  then  said  :  — 

"  Every  boy  in  this  school  knows  that  it  is  against 
the  rules  to  fight.  If  one  boy  maltreats  another, 
within  school-bounds,  or  within  school-hours,  that  is 
a  matter  for  me  to  settle.  The  case  should  be  laid 
before  me.  I  disapprove  of  tale-bearing,  I  never  en- 
courage it  in  the  slightest  degree ;  but  when  one 
pupil  systematically  persecutes  a  schoolmate,  it  is  the 
duty  of  some  head-boy  to  inform  me.  No  pupil  has 
a  right  to  take  the  law  into  his  own  hands.  If  there 
is  any  fighting  to  be  done,  I  am  the  person  to  be  con- 
sulted. I  disapprove  of  boys'  fighting ;  it  is  unneces- 
sary and  unchristian.  In  the  present  instance,  I  con- 
sider every  large  boy  in  this  school  at  fault ;  but  as 
the  offence  is  one  of  omission  rather  than  commis- 
sion, my  punishment  must  rest  only  on  the  two  boys 
convicted  of  misdemeanor.  Conway  loses  his  recess 
for  a  month,  and  Bailey  has  a  page  added  to  his  Latin 
lessons  for  the  next  four  recitations.  I  now  request 
Bailey  and  Conway  to  shake  hands  in  the  presence  of 
the  school,  and  acknowledge  their  regret  at  what  has 
occurred." 

Conway  and  I  approached  each  other  slowly  and 
cautiously,  as  if  we  were  bent  upon  another  hostile 
collision.    We  clasped  hands  in  the  tamest  manner 


I  FIGHT  CONWAY. 


117 


imaginable,  and  Conway  mumbled,  "  I  'm  sorry  I 
fought  with  you." 

"  I  think  you  are/'  I  replied,  drily,  "  and  I 'm  sorry 
I  had  to  thrash  you." 

"  You  can  go  to  your  seats,"  said  Mr.  Grimshaw, 
turning  his  face  aside  to  hide  a  smile.  I  am  sure  my 
apology  was  a  very  good  one. 

I  never  had  any  more  trouble  with  Conway.  He 
and  his  shadow,  Seth  Eodgers,  gave  me  a  wide  berth 
for  many  months.  Nor  was  Binny  Wallace  subjected 
to  further  molestation.  Miss  Abigail's  sanitary  stores, 
including  a  bottle  of  opodeldoc,  were  never  called 
into  requisition.  The  six  black  silk  patches,  with 
their  elastic  strings,  are  still  dangling  from  a  beam  in 
the  garret  of  the  Nutter  House,  waiting  for  me  to  get 
into  fresh  difficulties. 


118 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


CHAPTEE  XI 


ALL    ABOUT  GYPSY. 


HIS  record  of  my  life  at  Eiv- 
ermouth  would  be  strangely 
incomplete  did  I  not  devote 
an  entire  chapter  to  Gyp- 
sy. I  had  other  pets,  of 
course;  for  what  healthy 
boy  could  long  exist  with- 
out numerous  friends  in  the 
animal  kingdom  ?  I  had 
two  white  mice  that  were 
forever  gnamng  their  way 
out  of  a  pasteboard  chateau, 
and  crawling  over  my  face 
when  I  lay  asleep.  I  used 
to  keep  the  pink-eyed  Little 
beggars  in  my  bedroom, 
greatly  to  the  annoyance 
of  Miss  Abigail,  who  was 
constantly  fancying  that  one 
of  the  mice  had  secreted  itself  somewhere  about  her 
person. 

I  also  owned  a  dog,  a  terrier,  who  managed  in  some 
inscrutable  way  to  pick  a  quarrel  with  the  moon,  and 


ALL  ABOUT  GYPSY. 


119 


on  bright  nights  kept  up  such  a  ki-yi-ing  in  our  back 
garden,  that  we  were  finally  forced  to  dispose  of  him 
at  private  sale.  He  was  purchased  by  Mr.  Oxford, 
the  butcher.  I  protested  against  the  arrangement, 
and  ever  afterwards,  when  we  had  sausages  from  Mr. 
Oxford's  shop,  I  made  believe  I  detected  in  them 
certain  evidences  that  Cato  had  been  foully  dealt 
with. 

Of  birds  I  had  no  end,  —  robins,  purple-martins, 
wrens,  bulfinches,  bobolinks,  ringdoves,  and  pigeons. 
At  one  time  I  took  solid  comfort  in  the  iniquitous 
society  of  a  dissipated  old  parrot,  who  talked  so  ter- 
ribly, that  the  Eev.  Wibird  Hawkins,  happening  to 
get  a  sample  of  Poll's  vituperative  powers,  pronounced 
him  "  a  benighted  heathen,"  and  advised  the  Captain 
to  get  rid  of  him.  A  brace  of  turtles  supplanted  the 
parrot  in  my  affections  ;  the  turtles  gave  way  to  rab- 
bits ;  and  the  rabbits  in  turn  yielded  to  the  superior 
charms  of  a  small  monkey,  which  the  Capiain  bought 
of  a  sailor  lately  from  the  coast  of  Africa. 

But  Gypsy  was  the  prime  favorite,  in  spite  of  many 
rivals.  I  never  grew  weary  of  her.  She  was  the 
most  knowing  little  thing  in  the  world.  Her  proper 
sphere  in  life  —  and  the  one  to  which  she  ultimately 
attained  —  was  the  saw-dust  arena  of  a  travelling  cir- 
cus. There  was  nothing  short  of  the  three  E's,  read- 
ing, 'riting,  and  'rithmetic,  that  Gypsy  could  n't  be 
taught.  The  gift  of  speech  was  not  hers,  but  the 
faculty  of  thought  was. 

My  little  friend,  to  be  sure,  was  not  exempt  from 


120 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


certain  graceful  weaknesses,  inseparable,  perhaps,  from 
the  female  character.  She  was  very  pretty,  and  she 
knew  it.  She  was  also  passionately  fond  of  dress,  — 
by  which  I  mean  her  best  harness.  When  she  had 
this  on,  her  curvetings  and  prancings  were  laughable, 
though  in  ordinary  tackle  she  went  along  demurely 
enough.  There  was  something  in  the  enamelled 
leather  and  the  silver- washed  mountings  that  chimed 
with  her  artistic  sense.  To  have  her  mane  braided, 
and  a  rose  or  a  pansy  stuck  into  her  forelock,  was  to 
make  her  too  conceited  for  anything. 

She  had  another  trait  not  rare  among  her  sex.  She 
liked  the  attentions  of  young  gentlemen,  while  the 
society  of  girls  bored  her.  She  would  drag  them, 
sulkily,  in  the  cart ;  but  as  for  permitting  one  of  them 
in  the  saddle,  the  idea  was  preposterous.  Once  when 
Pepper  Whitcomb's  sister,  in  spite  of  our  remon- 
strances, ventured  to  mount  her,  Gypsy  gave  a  little 
indignant  neigh,  and  tossed  the  gentle  Emma  heels 
over  head  in  no  time.  But  with  any  of  the  boys  the 
mare  was  as  docile  as  a  lamb. 

Her  treatment  of  the  several  members  of  the  fam- 
ily was  comical.  For  the  Captain  she  entertained  a 
wholesome  respect,  and  was  always  on  her  good  be- 
havior when  he  was  around.  As  to  Miss  Abigail, 
Gypsy  simply  laughed  at  her,  —  literally  laughed, 
contracting  her  upper  lip  and  displaying  all  her  snow- 
white  teeth,  as  if  something  about  Miss  Abigail  struck 
her,  Gjrpsy,  as  being  extremely  ridiculous. 

Kitty  Collins,  for  some  reason  or  another,  was 


ALL  ABOUT  GYPSY. 


121 


afraid  of  the  pony,  or  pretended  to  be.  The  saga- 
cious little  animal  knew  it,  of  course,  and  frequently, 
when  Kitty  was  hanging  out  clothes  near  the  stable, 
the  mare  being  loose  in  the  yard,  would  make  short 
plunges  at  her.  Once  Gypsy  seized  the  basket  of 
clothes-pins  with  her  teeth,  and  rising  on  her  hind 
legs,  pawing  the  air  with  her  fore  feet  followed  Kitty 
clear  up  to  the  scullery  steps. 

That  part  of  the  yard  was  shut  off  from  the  rest 
by  a  gate  ;  but  no  gate  was  proof  against  Gypsy's 
ingenuity.  She  could  let  down  bars,  lift  up  latches, 
draw  bolts,  and  turn  all  sorts  of  buttons.  This  ac- 
complishment rendered  it  hazardous  for  Miss  Abigail 
or  Kitty  to  leave  any  eatables  on  the  kitchen  table 
near  the  window.  On  one  occasion  Gypsy  put  in 
her  head  and  lapped  up  six  custard  pies  that  had 
been  placed  by  the  casement  to  cool. 

An  account  of  my  young  lady's  various  pranks 
would  fill  a  thick  volume.  A  favorite  trick  of  hers, 
on  being  requested  to  "  walk  like  Miss  Abigail,"  was 
to  assume  a  little  skittish  gait  so  true  to  nature  that 
Miss  Abigail  herself  was  obliged  to  admit  the  clever- 
ness of  the  imitation. 

The  idea  of  putting  Gypsy  through  a  systematic 
course  of  instruction  was  suggested  to  me  by  a  visit 
to  the  circus  which  gave  an  annual  performance  in 
Eivermouth.  This  show  embraced  among  its  attrac- 
tions a  number  of  trained  Shetland  ponies,  and  I 
determined  that  Gypsy  should  likewise  have  the 
benefit  of  a  liberal  education.    I  succeeded  in  teach- 


122 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


ing  her  to  waltz,  to  fire  a  pistol  by  tugging  at  a  string 
tied  to  the  trigger,  to  lie  down  dead,  to  wink  one  eye, 
and  to  execute  many  other  feats  of  a  difficult  nature. 
She  took  to  her  studies  admirably,  and  enjoyed  the 
whole  thing  as  much  as  any  one. 

The  monkey  was  a  perpetual  marvel  to  Gypsy. 
They  became  bosom-friends  in  an  incredibly  brief 
period,  and  were  never  easy  out  of  each  other's  sight. 
Prince  Zany  —  that 's  what  Pepper  Whitcomb  and  I 
christened  him  one  day,  much  to  the  disgust  of  the 
monkey,  who  bit  a  piece  out  of  Pepper's  nose  —  re- 
sided in  the  stable,  and  went  to  roost  every  night  on 
the  pony's  back,  where  I  usually  found  him  in  the 
morning.  Whenever  I  rode  out,  I  was  obliged  to 
isecure  his  Highness  the  Prince  with  a  stout  cord  to 
the  fence,  he  chattering  all  the  time  like  a  madman. 

One  afternoon  as  I  was  cantering  through  the 
crowded  part  of  the  town,  I  noticed  that  the  people 
in  the  street  stopped,  stared  at  me,  and  fell  to  laugh- 
ing. I  turned  round  in  the  saddle,  and  there  was 
Zany,  with  a  great  burdock  leaf  in  his  paw,  perched 
up  behind  me  on  the  crupper,  as  solemn  as  a  judge. 

After  a  few  months,  poor  Zany  sickened  mysteri- 
ously, and  died.  The  dark  thought  occurred  to  me 
then,  and  comes  back  to  me  now  with  redoubled  force, 
that  Miss  Abigail  must  have  given  him  some  hot- 
drops.  Zany  left  a  large  circle  of  sorrowing  friends, 
if  not  relatives.  Gjrpsy,  I  think,  never  entirely  re- 
covered from  the  shock  occasioned  by  his  early  demise. 
She  became  fonder  of  me,  though ;  and  one  of  her 


ALL  ABOUT  GYPSY. 


123 


PRINCE   ZANY  TAKES  A  RIDE. 


cunningest  demonstrations  was  to  escape  from  the 
stable-yard,  and  trot  up  to  the  door  of  the  Temple 
Grammar  School,  where  I  would  discover  her  at 
recess  patiently  waiting  for  me,  with  her  fore  feet  on 
the  second  step,  and  wisps  of  straw  standing  out  all 
over  her,  like  quills  upon  the  fretful  porcupine. 

I  should  fail  if  I  tried  to  tell  you  how  dear  the 
pony  was  to  me.  Even  hard,  unloving  men  become 
attached  to  the  horses  they  take  care  of ;  so  I,  who 
was  neither  unloving  nor  hard,  grew  to  love  every 


124 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


glossy  hair  of  the  pretty  little  creature  that  depended 
on  me  for  her  soft  straw  bed  and  her  daily  modicum 
of  oats.  In  my  prayer  at  night  I  never  forgot  to 
mention  Gypsy  with  the  rest  of  the  family,  —  gener- 
ally setting  forth  her  claims  first. 

Whatever  relates  to  Gypsy  belongs  properly  to 
this  narrative  ;  therefore  I  offer  no  apology  for  rescu- 
ing from  oblivion,  and  boldly  printing  here  a  short 
composition  which  I  wrote  in  the  early  part  of  my  first 
qt^arter  at  the  Temple  Grammar  School.  It  is  my 
maiden  effort  in  a  difficult  art,  and  is,  perhaps,  lack- 
ing in  those  graces  of  thought  and  style  which  are 
reached  only  after  the  severest  practice. 

Every  Wednesday  morning,  on  entering  school,  each 
pupil  was  expected  to  lay  his  exercise  on  Mr.  Grim- 
shaw's  desk ;  the  subject  was  usually  selected  by  Mr. 
Grimshaw  himself,  the  Monday  previous.  With  a 
humor  characteristic  of  him,  our  teacher  had  insti- 
tuted two  prizes,  one  for  the  best  and  the  other  for 
the  worst  composition  of  the  month.  The  first  prize 
consisted  of  a  penknife,  or  a  pencil-case,  or  some  such 
article  dear  to  the  heart  of  youth ;  the  second  prize 
entitled  the  winner  to  wear  for  an  hour  or  two  a  sort 
of  conical  paper  cap,  on  the  front  of  which  was 
written,  in  tall  letters,  this  modest  admission  :  I  am  A 
Dunce  !  The  competitor  who  took  prize  No.  2  was  n't 
generally  an  object  of  envy. 

My  pulse  beat  high  with  pride  and  expectation 
that  Wednesday  morning,  as  I  laid  my  essay,  neatly 
folded,  on  the  master's  table.    I  firmly  decline  to  say 


ALL  ABOUT  GYPSY. 


125 


which  prize  I  won ;  but  here 's  the  composition  to 
speak  for  itseK :  — 

l-^^  .tt^^  ir^^t-^j. 


It  is  no  small-author  vanity  that  induces  me  to 
publish  this  stray  leaf  of  natural  history.  I  lay  it 
before  our  young  folks,  not  for  their  admiration,  but 


126 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


for  their  criticism.  Let  each  reader  take  his  lead- 
pencil  and  remorselessly  correct  the  orthography,  the 
capitalization,  and  the  punctuation  of  the  essay.  I 
shall  not  feel  hurt  at  seeing  my  treatise  cut  all 
to  pieces ;  though  I  think  highly  of  the  production, 
not  on  account  of  its  literary  excellence,  which  I  can- 
didly admit  is  not  overpowering,  but  because  it  was 
written  years  and  years  ago  about  Gypsy,  by  a  little 
fellow  who,  when  I  strive  to  recall  him,  appears  to 
me  like  a  reduced  ghost  of  my  present  seK. 

I  am  confident  that  any  reader  who  has  ever  had 
pets,  birds  or  animals,  will  forgive  me  for  this  brief 
digression. 


WINTER  AT  RIVERMOUTH.  127 


CHAPTEK  XII. 

WINTER    AT  RIVERMOUTH. 

GUESS  we  're  going  to 
have  a  regular  old-fash- 
ioned snow-storm,"  said 
Captain  Nutter,  one  bleak 
December  morning,  casting 
a  peculiarly  nautical  glance 
skyward. 

The  Captain  was  always 
hazarding  prophecies  about 
the  weather,  which  some- 
how never  turned  out  ac- 
cording to  his  prediction. 
The  vanes  on  the  church- 
steeples  seemed  to  take 
fiendish  pleasure  in  humil- 
iating the  dear  old  gentle- 
man. If  he  said  it  was 
going  to  be  a  clear  day,  a 
dense  sea-fog  was  pretty 
certain  to  set  in  before  noon.  Once  he  caused  a  pro- 
tracted drought  by  assuring  us  every  morning,  for 
six  consecutive  weeks,  that  it  would  rain  in  a  few 
hours.  But,  sure  enough,  that  afternoon  it  began 
snowing. 


128 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


Now  I  had  not  seen  a  snow-storm  since  I  was 
eighteen  months  old,  and  of  course  remembered 
nothing  about  it.  A  boy  familiar  from  his  infancy 
with  the  rigors  of  our  New  England  winters  can 
form  no  idea  of  the  impression  made  on  me  by  this 
natural  phenomenon.  My  delight  and  surprise  were 
as  boundless  as  if  the  heavy  gray  sky  had  let  down 
a  shower  of  pond-lilies  and  white  roses,  instead  of 
snow-flakes.  It  happened  to  be  a  half-holiday,  so  I 
had  nothing  to  do  but  watch  the  feathery  crystals 
whirling  hither  and  thither  through  the  air.  I  stood 
by  the  sitting-room  window  gazing  at  the  wonder 
until  twilight  shut  out  the  novel  scene. 

We  had  had  several  slight  flurries  of  hail  and 
snow  before,  but  this  was  a  regular  nor'easter. 

Several  inches  of  snow  had  already  fallen.  The 
rose-bushes  at  the  door  drooped  with  the  weight  of 
their  magical  blossoms,  and  the  two  posts  that  held 
the  garden  gate  were  transformed  into  stately  Turks, 
with  white  turbans,  guarding  the  entrance  to  the 
Nutter  House. 

The  storm  increased  at  sundown,  and  continued 
with  unabated  violence  through  the  night.  The  next 
morning,  when  I  jumped  out  of  bed,  the  sun  was 
shining  brightly,  the  cloudless  heavens  wore  the  ten- 
der azure  of  June,  and  the  whole  earth  lay  muffled 
up  to  the  eyes,  as  it  were,  in  a  thick  mantle  of  milk- 
white  down. 

It  was  a  very  deep  snow.  The  Oldest  Inhabitant 
(what  would  become  of  a  New  England  town  or  vil- 


WINTER  AT  RIVERMOUTH. 


129 


lage  without  its  oldest  inhabitant  ? )  overhauled  his 
almanacs,  and  pronounced  it  the  deepest  snow  we 
had  had  for  twenty  years.  It  could  n  t  have  been 
much  deeper  without  smothering  us  all.  Our  street 
was  a  sight  to  be  seen,  or,  rather,  it  was  a  sight  not 
to  be  seen;  for  very  little  street  was  visible.  One 
huge  drift  completely  banked  up  our  front  door  and 
half  covered  my  bedroom  window. 

There  was  no  school  that  day,  for  all  the  thorough- 
fares were  impassable.  By  twelve  o'clock,  however, 
the  great  snow-ploughs,  each  drawn  by  four  yokes 
of  oxen,  broke  a  wagon-path  through  the  principal 
streets ;  but  the  foot-passengers  had  a  hard  time  of  it 
floundering  in  the  arctic  drifts. 

The  Captain  and  I  cut  a  tunnel,  three  feet  wide 
and  six  feet  high,  from  our  front  door  to  the  sidewalk 
opposite.  It  was  a  beautiful  cavern,  with  its  walls 
and  roof  inlaid  with  mother-of-pearl  and  diamonds. 
I  am  sure  the  ice  palace  of  the  Eussian  Empress,  in 
Cowper's  poem,  was  not  a  more  superb  piece  of  archi- 
tecture. 

The  thermometer  began  falling  shortly  before  sun- 
set, and  we  had  the  bitterest  cold  night  I  ever  ex- 
perienced. This  brought  out  the  Oldest  Inhabitant 
again  the  next  day,  —  and  what  a  gay  old  boy  he  was 
for  deciding  everything !  Our  tunnel  was  turned 
into  solid  ice.  A  crust  thick  enough  to  bear  men 
and  horses  had  formed  over  the  snow  everywhere, 
and  the  air  was  alive  with  merry  sleigh-bells.  Icy 
stalactites,  a  yard  long,  hung  from  the  eaves  of  the 


130 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


house,  and  the  Turkish  sentinels  at  the  gate  looked 
as  if  they  had  given  up  all  hopes  of  ever  being  re- 
lieved from  duty. 

So  the  winter  set  in  cold  and  glittering.  Every- 
thing out  of  doors  was  sheathed  in  silver  maO..  To 
quote  froin  Charley  Marden,  it  was  "  cold  enough  to 
freeze  the  tail  off  a  brass  monkey,"  —  an  observation 
which  seemed  to  me  extremely  happy,  though  I  knew 
little  or  nothing  concerning  the  endurance  of  brass 
monkeys,  having  never  seen  one. 

I  had  looked  forward  to  the  advent  of  the  season 
with  grave  apprehensions,  nerving  myself  to  meet 
dreary  nights  and  monotonous  days ;  but  summer 
itseK  was  not  more  jolly  than  winter  at  Ei vermouth. 
Snow-balling  at  school,  skating  on  the  Mill  Pond, 
coasting  by  moonlight,  long  rides  behind  Gypsy  in  a 
brand-new  little  sleigh  built  expressly  for  her,  were 
sports  no  less  exhilarating  than  those  which  belonged 
to  the  sunny  months.  And  then  Thanksgiving  !  The 
nose  of  Memory  —  why  should  n't  Memory  have  a 
nose  ?  —  dilates  with  pleasure  over  the  rich  perfume 
of  Miss  Abigail's  forty  mince-pies,  each  one  more  de- 
lightful than  the  other,  like  the  Sultan's  forty  wives. 
Christmas  was  another  red-letter  day,  though  it  was 
not  so  generally  observed  in  New  England  as  it  is 
now. 

The  great  wood-fire  in  the  tiled  chimney-place 
made  our  sitting-room  very  cheerful  of  winter  nights. 
When  the  north- wind  howled  about  the  eaves,  and 
the  sharp  fingers  of  the  sleet  tapped  against  the  win- 


WINTER  AT  RIVERMOUTH. 


131 


dow-panes,  it  was  nice  to  be  so  warmly  sheltered 
from  the  storm.  A  dish  of  apples  and  a  pitcher  of 
chilly  cider  were  always  served  during  the  evening. 
The  Captain  had  a  funny  way  of  leaning  back  in  the 
chair,  and  eating  his  apple  with  his  eyes  closed. 
Sometimes  I  played  dominos  with  him,  and  some- 
times Miss  Abigail  read  aloud  to  us,  pronouncing 
"  to  "  toe,  and  sounding  all  the  eds. 

In  a  former  chapter  I  alluded  to  Miss  Abigail's 
managing  propensities.  She  had  affected  many 
changes  in  the  Nutter  House  before  I  came  there 
to  live ;  but  there  was  one  thing  against  which  she 
had  long  contended  without  being  able  to  overcome. 
This  was  the  Captain's  pipe.  On  first  taking  com- 
mand of  the  household,  she  prohibited  smoking  in 
the  sitting-room,  where  it  had  been  the  old  gentle- 
man's custom  to  take  a  whiff  or  two  of  the  fragrant 
weed  after  meals.  The  edict  went  forth,  —  and  so 
did  the  pipe.  An  excellent  move,  no  doubt;  but 
then  the  house  was  his,  and  if  he  saw  fit  to  keep  a 
tub  of  tobacco  burning  in  the  middle  of  the  parlor 
floor,  he  had  a  perfect  right  to  do  so.  However,  he 
humored  her  in  this  as  in  other  matters,  and  smoked 
by  stealth,  like  a  guilty  creature,  in  the  barn,  or  about 
the  gardens.  That  was  practicable  in  summer,  but  in 
winter  the  Captain  was  hard  put  to  it.  When  he 
could  n't  stand  it  longer,  he  retreated  to  his  bedroom 
and  barricaded  the  door.  Such  was  the  position  of 
affairs  at  the  time  of  which  I  write. 

One  morning,  a  few  days  after  the  great  snow^  as 


132 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


Miss  Abigail  was  dusting  the  chronometer  in  the 
hall,  she  beheld  Captain  Nutter  slowly  descending 
the  staircase,  with  a  long  clay  pipe  in  his  mouth. 
Miss  Abigail  could  hardly  credit  her  own  eyes. 

"  Dan'el ! "  she  gasped,  retiring  heavily  on  the  hat- 
rack. 

The  tone  of  reproach  with  which  this  word  was 
uttered  failed  to  produce  the  slightest  effect  on  the 
Captain,  who  merely  removed  the  pipe  from  his  lips 
for  an  instant,  and  blew  a  cloud  into  the  chilly  air. 
The  thermometer  stood  at  two  degrees  below  zero  in 
our  hall. 

"  Dan'el  !  "  cried  Miss  Abigail,  hysterically,  — 
"  Dan'el,  don't  come  near  me ! "  Whereupon  she 
fainted  away ;  fpr  the  smell  of  tobacco-smoke  always 
made  her  deadly  sick. 

Kitty  Collins  rushed  from  the  kitchen  with  a  basin 
of  water,  and  set  to  work  bathing  Miss  Abigail's  tem- 
ples and  chafing  her  hands.  I  thought  my  grand- 
father rather  cruel,  as  he  stood  there  with  a  half-smile 
on  his  countenance,  complacently  watching  Miss  Abi- 
gail's sufferings.  When  she  was  "brought  to,"  the 
Captain  sat  down  beside  her,  and,  with  a  lovely 
twinkle  in  his  eye,  said  softly :  — 

"  Abigail,  my  dear,  there  was  n't  any  tobacco  in  that 
pipe  I  It  was  a  new  pipe.  I  fetched  it  down  for 
Tom  to  blow  soap-bubbles  with." 

At  these  words  Kitty  Collins  hurried  away,  her 
features  working  strangely.  Several  minutes  later  I 
came  upon  her  in  the  scullery  with  the  greater  por- 


WINTER  AT  RIVERMOUTH. 


133 


tion  of  a  crash  towel  stuffed  into  her  mouth.  "  Miss 
Abygil  smelt  the  terbacca  with  her  oi  ! "  cried  Kitty, 
partially  removing  the  cloth,  and  then  immediately 
stopping  herself  up  again. 

The  Captain's  joke  furnished  us  —  that  is,  Kitty 
and  me  —  with  mirth  for  many  a  day ;  as  to  Miss 
Abigail,  I  think  she  never  wholly  pardoned  him. 
After  this,  Captain  Nutter  gradually  gave  up  smok- 
ing, which  is  an  untidy,  injurious,  disgraceful,  and 
highly  pleasant  habit. 

A  boy's  life  in  a  secluded  New  England  town  in 
"winter  does  not  afford  many  points  for  illustration. 
Of  course  he  gets  his  ears  or  toes  frost-bitten ;  of 
course  he  smashes  his  sled  against  another  boy's  ;  of 
course  he  bangs  his  head  on  the  ice  ;  and  he 's  a  lad 
of  no  enterprise  whatever,  if  he  does  n't  manage  to 
skate  into  an  eel-hole,  and  be  brought  home  half 
drowned.  All  these  things  happened  to  me  ;  but,  as 
they  lack  novelty,  I  pass  them  over,  to  tell  you  about 
the  famous  snow-fort  which  we  built  on  Slatter's  HilL 


134  THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 

CHAPTEE  XIII. 

THE  SNOW   FORT   ON    SLATTER'S  HILL. 

HE  memory  of  man,  even 
that  of  the  Oldest  Inhabi- 
tant, runneth  not  back  to 
the  time  when  there  did 
not  exist  a  feud  between 
the  North  End  and  the 
South  End  boys  of  Eiver- 
mouth. 

The  origin  of  the  feud 
is  involved  in  mystery ;  it 
is  impossible  to  say  which 
party  was  the  first  aggres- 
sor in  the  far-off  ante-revo- 
lutionary ages  ;  but  the  fact 
remains  that  the  youngsters 
of  those  antipodal  sections 
entertained  a  mortal  hatred 
for  each  other,  and  that  this 
hatred  had  been  handed 
down  from  generation  to  generation,  like  Miles  Stand- 
ish's  punch-bowl. 

I  know  not  what  laws,  natural  or  unnatural,  regu- 
lated the  warmth  of  the  quarrel ;  but  at  some  sea^ 


THE  SNOW  FORT  ON  SLATTER'S  HILL.  135 

sons  it  raged  more  violently  than  at  others.  This 
winter  both  parties  were  unusually  lively  and  antag- 
onistic. Great  was  the  wrath  of  the  South-Enders, 
when  they  discovered  that  the  N'orth-Enders  had 
thrown  up  a  fort  on  the  crown  of  Slatter's  Hill. 

Slatter's  Hill,  or  No-man's-land,  as  it  was  generally 
called,  was  a  rise  of  ground  covering,  perhaps,  an  acre 
and  a  quarter,  situated  on  an  imaginaiy  line,  marking 
the  boundary  between  the  two  districts.  An  im- 
mense stratum  of  granite,  which  here  and  there 
thrust  out  a  wrinkled  boulder,  prevented  the  site 
from  being  used  for  building  purposes.  The  street 
ran  on  either  side  of  the  hill,  from  one  part  of  which 
a  quantity  of  rock  had  been  removed  to  form  the 
underpinning  of  the  new  jail.  This  excavation  made 
the  approach  from  that  point  all  but  impossible,  es- 
pecially when  the  ragged  ledges  were  a-glitter  with 
ice.    You  see  what  a  spot  it  was  for  a  snow-fort. 

One  evening  twenty  or  thirty  of  the  North-Enders 
quietly  took  possession  of  Slatter's  Hill,  and  threw  up 
a  strong  line  of  breastworks,  something  after  this 
shape  :  — 


The  rear  of  the  intrenchment,  being  protected  by 
the  quarry,  was  left  open.    The  walls  were  four  feet 


136 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


high,  and  twenty-two  inches  thick,  strengthened  at 
the  angles  by  stakes  driven  firmly  into  the  ground. 

Fancy  the  rage  of  the  South-Enders  the  next  day, 
when  they  spied  our  snowy  citadel,  with  Jack  Harris's 
red  silk  pocket-handkerchief  floating  defiantly  from 
the  flag-staff. 

In  less  than  an  hour  it  was  known  all  over  town, 
in  military  circles  at  least,  that  the  "  Puddle-dockers  " 
and  the  "  Eiver-rats  "  (these  were  the  derisive  sub-titles 
bestowed  on  our  South-End  foes)  intended  to  attack 
the  fort  that  Saturday  afternoon. 

At  two  o'clock  all  the  fighting  boys  of  the  Temple 
Grammar  School,  and  as  many  recruits  as  we  could 
muster,  lay  behind  the  walls  of  Fort  Slatter,  with 
three  hundred  compact  snow-balls  piled  up  in  pyr- 
amids, awaiting  the  approach  of  the  enemy.  The 
enemy  was  not  slow  in  making  his  approach,  —  fifty 
strong,  headed  by  one  Mat  Ames.  Our  forces  were 
under  the  command  of  General  J.  Harris. 

Before  the  action  commenced,  a  meeting  was  ar- 
ranged between  the  rival  commanders,  who  drew  up 
and  signed  certain  rules  and  regulations  respecting 
the  conduct  of  the  battle.  As  it  was  impossible  for 
the  North-Enders  to  occupy  the  fort  permanently,  it 
was  stipulated  that  the  South-Enders  should  assault 
it  only  on  Wednesday  and  Saturday  afternoons  be- 
tween the  hours  of  two  and  six.  For  them  to  take 
possession  of  the  place  at  any  other  time  was  not  to 
constitute  a  capture,  but  on  the  contrary  was  to  be 
considered  a  dishonorable  and  cowardly  act. 


THE  SNOW  FOET  ON  SLATTER'S  HILL.  137 

The  North-Enders,  on  the  other  hand,  agreed  to 
give  up  the  fort  whenever  ten  of  the  storming  party- 
succeeded  in  obtaining  at  one  time  a  footing  on  the 
parapet,  and  were  able  to  hold  the  same  for  the  space 
of  two  minutes.  Both  sides  were  to  abstain  from 
putting  pebbles  into  their  snow-balls,  nor  was  it 
permissible  to  use  frozen  ammunition.  A  snow-ball 
soaked  in  water  and  left  out  to  cool  was  a  projectile 
which  in  previous  years  had  been  resorted  to  with 
disastrous  results. 

These  preliminaries  settled,  the  commanders  retired 
to  their  respective  corps.  The  interview  had  taken 
place  on  the  hillside  between  the  opposing  lines. 

General  Harris  divided  his  men  into  two  bodies ; 
the  first  comprised  the  most  skiKul  marksmen,  or 
gunners  ;  the  second,  the  reserve  force,  was  composed 
of  the  strongest  boys,  whose  duty  it  was  to  repel  the 
scaling  parties,  and  to  make  occasional  sallies  for  the 
purpose  of  capturing  prisoners,  who  were  bound  by 
the  articles  of  treaty  to  faithfully  serve  under  our 
flag  until  they  were  exchanged  at  the  close  of  the 
day. 

The  repellers  were  called  light  infantry ;  but  when 
they  carried  on  operations  beyond  the  fort  they  be- 
came cavalry.  It  was  also  their  duty,  when  not  oth- 
erwise engaged,  to  manufacture  snow-balls.  The  G  en- 
eral's  staff  consisted  of  five  Templars  (I  among  the 
number,  with  the  rank  of  Major),  who  carried  the 
General's  orders  and  looked  after  the  wounded. 

General  Mat  Ames,  a  veteran  commander,  was  no 


138 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


less  wide-awake  in  the  disposition  of  his  army.  Five 
companies,  each  numbering  but  six  men,  in  order  not 
to  present  too  big  a  target  to  our  sharpshooters,  were 
to  charge  the  fort  from  different  points,  their  advance 
being  covered  by  a  heavy  fire  from  the  gunners  posted 
in  the  rear.  Each  scaler  was  provided  with  only  two 
rounds  of  ammunition,  which  were  not  to  be  used  un- 
til he  had  mounted  the  breastwork  and  could  deliver 
his  shots  on  our  heads. 

The  following  cut  represents  the  interior  of  the 
fort  just  previous  to  the  assault.  Nothing  on  earth 
could  represent  the  state  of  things  after  the  first 
voUey. 


a.  Flagstaff.  c.  Ammunition        /  /.  Gunners  in  position 

b.  General  Harris  and  his  Staff.       d.  Hospital.  g  g  The  quarry. 

e  e.  Reserve  corps. 


The  enemy  was  posted  thus :  — 

a  a  The  five  attacking  columns,   b  b.  Artillery,  c 


General  Ames'3  headquartera 


THE  SNOW  FORT  ON  SLATTER'S  HILL.  139 

The  thrilling  moment  had  now  arrived.  If  I  had 
been  going  into  a  real  engagement  I  could  not  have 
been  more  deeply  impressed  by  the  importance  of  the 
occasion. 

The  fort  opened  fire  first,  —  a  single  ball  from  the 
dexterous  hand  of  General  Harris  taking  General 
Ames  in  the  very  pit  of  his  stomach.  A  cheer  went 
up  from  Fort  Slatter.  In  an  instant  the  air  was  thick 
with  flying  missiles,  in  the  midst  of  which  we  dimly 
descried  the  storming  parties  sweeping  up  the  hill, 
shoulder  to  shoulder.  The  shouts  of  the  leaders,  and 
the  snow-balls  bursting  like  shells  about  our  ears, 
made  it  very  lively. 

Not  more  than  a  dozen  of  the  enemy  succeeded  in 
reaching  the  crest  of  the  hiU ;  five  of  these  clam- 
bered upon  the  icy  waUs,  where  they  were  instantly 
grabbed  by  the  legs  and  jerked  into  the  fort.  The 
rest  retired  confused  and  blinded  by  our  well-directed 
fire. 

When  General  Harris  (with  his  right  eye  bunged 
up)  said,  "  Soldiers,  I  am  proud  of  you  ! "  my  heart 
swelled  in  my  bosom. 

The  victory,  however,  had  not  been  without  its 
pi  ice.  Six  North-Enders,  having  rushed  out  to  har- 
ass the  discomfited  enemy,  were  gallantly  cut  off  by 
General  Ames  and  captured.  Among  these  were 
Lieutenant  P.  Wliitcomb  (who  had  no  business  to 
join  in  the  charge,  being  weak  in  the  knees),  and 
Captain  Fred  Langdon,  of  General  Harris's  staff. 
Whitcomb  was  one  of  the  most  notable  shots  on  our 


140 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


side,  though  he  was  not  much  to  boast  of  in  a  rough- 
and-tumble  fight,  owing  to  the  weakness  before  men- 
tioned. General  Ames  put  him  among  the  gunners, 
and  we  were  quickly  made  aware  of  the  loss  we  had 
sustained,  by  receiving  a  frequent  artful  ball  which 
seemed  to  light  with  unerring  instinct  on  any  nose 
that  was  the  least  bit  exposed.  I  have  known  one 
of  Pepper's  snow-balls,  fired  point-blank,  to  turn  a 
corner  and  hit  a  boy  who  considered  himself  abso- 
lutely safe. 

But  we  had  no  time  for  vain  regrets.  The  battle 
raged.  Already  there  were  two  bad  cases  of  black 
eye,  and  one  of  nose-bleed,  in  the  hospital. 

It  was  glorious  excitement,  those  pell-mell  on- 
slaughts and  hand-to-hand  struggles.  Twice  we  were 
within  an  ace  of  being  driven  from  our  stronghold, 
when  General  Harris  and  his  staff  leaped  recklessly 
upon  the  ramparts  and  hurled  the  besiegers  heels 
over  head  down  hill. 

At  sunset,  the  garrison  of  Fort  Slatter  was  still 
unconquered,  and  the  South-Enders,  in  a  solid  pha- 
lanx, marched  off  whistling  "  Yankee  Doodle,"  while 
we  cheered  and  jeered  them  until  they  were  out  of 
hearing. 

General  Ames  remained  behind  to  effect  an  ex- 
change of  prisoners.  We  held  thirteen  of  his  men, 
and  he  eleven  of  ours.  General  Ames  proposed  to 
call  it  an  even  thing,  since  many  of  his  eleven  pris- 
oners were  officers,  while  nearly  all  our  thirteen  cap- 
tives were  privates.    A  dispute  arising  on  this  point, 


THE  SNOW  FORT  ON  SLATTER'S  HILL.  141 

the  two  noble  generals  came  to  fisticuffs,  and  in  the 
fracas  our  brave  commander  got  his  remaining  well 
eye  badly  damaged.  This  did  n't  prevent  him  from 
writing  a  general'  order  the  next  day,  on  a  slate,  in 
which  he  complimented  the  troops  on  their  heroic 
behavior. 

On  the  following  Wednesday  the  siege  was  re- 
newed. I  forget  whether  it  was  on  that  afternoon  or 
xhe  next  that  we  lost  Fort  Slatter ;  but  lose  it  we  did, 
with  much  valuable  ammunition  and  several  men. 
After  a  series  of  desperate  assaults,  we  forced  General 
Ames  to  capitulate  ;  and  he,  in  turn,  made  the  place 
too  hot  to  hold  us.  So  from  day  to  day  the  tide  of 
battle  surged  to  and  fro,  sometimes  favoring  our  arms, 
and  sometimes  those  of  the  enemy. 

General  Ames  handled  his  men  with  gTcat  skill ; 
his  deadliest  foe  could  not  deny  that.  Once  he  out- 
generalled  our  commander  in  the  following  manner : 
He  massed  his  gunners  on  our  left  and  opened  a  brisk 
fire,  under  cover  of  which  a  single  company  (six  men) 
advanced  on  that  angle  of  the  fort.  Our  reserves  on 
the  right  rushed  over  to  defend  the  threatened  point. 
Meanwhile,  four  companies  of  the  enemy's  scalers 
made  a  detour  round  the  foot  of  the  hill,  and  dashed 
into  Fort  Slatter  without  opposition.  At  the  same 
moment  General  Ames's  gunners  closed  in  on  our 
;eft,  and  there  we  were  between  two  fires.  Of  course 
we  had  to  vacate  the  fort.  A  cloud  rested  on  General 
Harris's  military  reputation  until  his  superior  tactics 
enabled  him  to  dispossess  the  enemy. 


142 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


As  the  winter  wore  on,  the  war-spirit  waxed  fiercer 
and  fiercer.  At  length  the  provision  against  using 
heavy  substances  in  the  snow-balls  was  disregarded. 
A  ball  stuck  full  of  sand-bird  shot  came  tearing  into 
Fort  Slatter.  In  retaliation,  General  Harris  ordered 
a  broadside  of  shells  ;  i.  e.  snow-balls  containing  mar- 
bles. After  this,  both  sides  never  failed  to  freeze  their 
ammunition. 

It  was  no  longer  child's  play  to  march  up  to  the 
walls  of  Fort  Slatter,  nor  was  the  position  of  the  be- 
sieged less  perilous.  At  every  assault  three  or  four 
boys  on  each  side  were  disabled.  It  was  not  an  in- 
frequent occurrence  for  the  combatants  to  hold  up  a 
flag  of  truce  while  they  removed  some  insensible 
comrade. 

Matters  grew  worse  and  worse.  Seven  North- 
Enders  had  been  seriously  wounded,  and  a  dozen 
South-Enders  were  reported  on  the  sick  list.  The 
selectmen  of  the  town  awoke  to  the  fact  of  what  was 
going  on,  and  detailed  a  posse  of  police  to  prevent 
further  disturbance.  The  boys  at  the  foot  of  the  hill, 
South-Enders  as  it  happened,  finding  themselves  as- 
sailed in  the  rear  and  on  the  flank,  turned  round  and 
attempted  to  beat  off  the  watchmen.  In  this  they 
were  sustained  by  numerous  volunteers  from  the 
fort,  who  looked  upon  the  interference  as  tyranni- 
cal. 

The  watch  were  determined  fellows,  and  charged 
the  boys  valiantly,  driving  them  all  into  the  fort, 
where  we  made  common  cause,  fighting  side  by  side 


THE  SNOW  FORT  ON  SLATTER'S  HILL.  143 

like  the  best  of  friends.  In  vain  the  four  guardians 
of  the  peace  rushed  up  the  hill,  flourishing  their  clubs 
and  calling  upon  us  to  surrender.  They  could  not 
get  within  ten  yards  of  the  fort,  our  fire  was  so  de- 
structive. In  one  of  the  onsets  a  man  named  Mug- 
ridge,  more  valorous  than  his  peers,  threw  himseK 
upon  the  parapet,  when  he  was  seized  by  twenty 
pairs  of  hands,  and  dragged  inside  the  breastwork, 
where  fifteen  boys  sat  down  on  him  to  keep  him 
quiet. 

Perceiving  that  it  was  impossible  with  their  small 
number  to  dislodge  us,  the  watch  sent  for  reinforce- 
ments. Their  call  was  responded  to,  not  only  by  the 
whole  constabulary  force  (eight  men),  but  by  a  numer- 
ous body  of  citizens,  who  had  become  alarmed  at  the 
prospect  of  a  riot.  This  formidable  array  brought  us 
to  our  senses  :  we  began  to  think  that  maybe  discre- 
tion was  the  better  part  of  valor.  General  Harris 
and  General  Ames,  with  their  respective  staffs,  held  a 
council  of  war  in  the  hospital,  and  a  backward  move- 
ment was  decided  on.  So,  after  one  grand  farewell 
volley,  we  fled,  sliding,  jumping,  rolling,  tumbling 
down  the  quarry  at  the  rear  of  the  fort,  and  escaped 
without  losing  a  man. 

But  we  lost  Fort  Slatter  forever.  Those  battle- 
scarred  ramparts  were  razed  to  the  ground,  and 
humiliating  ashes  sprinkled  over  the  historic  spot, 
near  which  a  solitary  lynx-eyed  policeman  was  seen 
prowling  from  time  to  time  during  the  rest  of  the 
winter. 


144 


THE  STORY  OF  \  BAD  BOY. 


The  e\'ent  passed  into  a  legend,  and  afterwards, 
when  later  instances  of  pluck  and  endurance  were 
spoken  of,  the  boys  would  say,  "  By  golly  !  you  ought 
to  have  been  at  the  fights  on  Slatter's  Hill  I  *' 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  DOLPHIN.  145 


CHAPTEE  XIV. 

THE   CRUISE   OF   THE  DOLPHIN. 

T  was  spring  again.  The 
snow  had  faded  away  like  a 
dream,  and  we  were  awak- 
ened, so  to  speak,  by  the 
sudden  chirping  of  robins 
in  our  back  garden.  Mar- 
vellous transformation  of 
snow-drifts  into  lilacs,  won- 
drous miracle  of  the  un- 
folding leaf!  We  read  in 
the  Holy  Book  how  our 
Saviour,  at  the  marriage- 
feast,  changed  the  water 
into  wine ;  we  pause  and 
wonder;  but  every  hour  a 
greater  miracle  is  wrought 
at  our  very  feet,  if  we  have 
but  eyes  to  see  it. 

I  had  now  been  a  year 
at  Eivermouth.  If  you  do  not  know  what  sort  of 
boy  I  was,  it  is  not  because  I  have  n't  been  frank 
with  you.  Of  my  progress  at  school  I  say  little ;  for 
this  is  a  story,  pure  and  simple,  and  not  a  treatise  on 
7  J 


146 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


education.  Behold  me,  however,  well  up  in  most  of 
the  classes.  I  have  worn  my  Latin  grammar  into 
tatters,  and  am  in  the  first  book  of  Virgil.  I  inter- 
lard my  conversation  at  home  with  easy  quotations 
from  that  poet,  and  impress  Captain  Nutter  with  a 
lofty  notion  of  my  learning.  I  am  likewise  trans- 
lating Les  Aventures  de  Telemaque  from  the  French, 
and  shall  tackle  Blair's  Lectures  the  next  term.  I 
am  ashamed  of  my  crude  composition  about  The 
Horse,  and  can  do  better  now.  Sometimes  my  head 
almost  aches  with  the  variety  of  my  knowledge.  I 
consider  Mr.  Grimshaw  the  greatest  scholar  that  ever 
lived,  and  I  don't  know  which  I  would  rather  be,  — 
a  learned  man  like  him,  or  a  circus -rider. 

My  thoughts  revert  to  this  particular  spring  more 
frequently  than  to  any  other  period  of  my  boy- 
hood, for  it  was  marked  by  an  event  that  left  an  in- 
delible impression  on  my  memory.  As  I  pen  these 
pages,  I  feel  that  I  am  writing  of  something  which 
happened  yesterday,  so  vividly  it  all  comes  back 
to  me. 

Every  Kivermouth  boy  looks  upon  the  sea  as  being 
in  some  way  mixed  up  with  his  destiny.  While  he 
is  yet  a  baby  lying  in  his  cradle,  he  hears  the  dull, 
far-off  boom  of  the  breakers ;  when  he  is  older,  he 
wanders  by  the  sandy  shore,  watching  the  waves  that 
come  plunging  up  the  beach  like  white-maned  sea- 
horses, as  Thoreau  calls  them ;  his  eye  follows  the 
lessening  sail  as  it  fades  into  the  blue  horizon,  and 
he  burns  for  the  time  when  he  shall  stand  on  the 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  DOLPHIN. 


147 


quarter-deck  of  his  own  ship,  and  go  sailing  proudly 
across  that  mysterious  waste  of  waters. 

Then  the  town  itself  is  full  of  hints  and  flavors 
of  the  sea.  The  gables  and  roofs  of  the  houses  facing 
eastward  are  covered  with  red  rust,  like  the  flukes  of 
old  anchors  ;  a  salty  smell  pervades  the  air,  and  dense 
gray  fogs,  the  very  breath  of  Ocean,  periodically  creep 
up  into  the  quiet  streets  and  envelop  everything.  The 
terrific  storms  that  lash  the  coast ;  the  kelp  and  spars, 
and  sometimes  the  bodies  of  drowned  men,  tossed 
on  shore  by  the  scornful  waves ;  the  shipyards,  the 
wharves,  and  the  tawny  fleet  of  fishing-smacks  yearly 
fitted  out  at  Eivermouth,  —  these  things,  and  a  hun- 
dred other,  feed  the  imagination  and  fill  the  brain  of 
every  healthy  boy  with  dreams  of  adventure.  He 
learns  to  swim  almost  as  soon  as  he  can  walk ;  he 
draws  in  with  his  mother's  milk  the  art  of  handling 
an  oar :  he  is  born  a  sailor,  whatever  he  may  turn 
out  to  be  afterwards. 

To  own  the  whole  or  a  portion  of  a  row-boat  is  his 
earliest  ambition.  No  wonder  that  I,  born  to  this 
life,  and  coming  back  to  it  with  freshest  sympathies, 
should  have  caught  the  prevailing  infection.  No 
wonder  I  longed  to  buy  a  part  of  the  trim  little  sail- 
boat Dolphin,  which  chanced  just  then  to  be  in  the 
market.    This  was  in  the  latter  part  of  May. 

Three  shares,  at  five  or  six  dollars  each,  I  forget 
which,  had  already  been  taken  by  Phil  Adams,  Fred 
Langdon,  and  Binny  Wallace.  The  fourth  and  re- 
maining share  hung  fire.  Unless  a  purchaser  could 
be  found  for  this,  the  bargain  was  to  fall  through. 


148 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


I  am  afraid.  I  required  but  slight  urging  to  join  in 
the  investment.  I  had  four  dollars  and  fifty  cents  on 
hand,  and  the  treasurer  of  the  Centipedes  advanced 
me  the  balance,  receiving  my  silver  pencil-case  as 
ample  security.  It  was  a  proud  moment  when  I 
stood  on  the  wharf  with  my  partners,  inspecting  the 
Dolphin,  moored  at  the  foot  of  a  very  slippery  flight 
of  steps.  She  was  painted  white  with  a  green  stripe 
outside,  and  on  the  stern  a  yellow  dolphin,  with  its 
scarlet  mouth  wide  open,  stared  with  a  surprised  ex- 
pression at  its  own  reflection  in  the  water.  The  boat 
was  a  great  bargain. 

I  whirled  my  cap  in  the  air,  and  ran  to  the  stairs 
leading  down  from  the  wharf,  when  a  hand  was  laid 
gently  on  my  shoulder.  I  turned,  and  faced  Captain 
Nutter.  I  never  saw  such  an  old  sharp-eye  as  he 
was  in  those  days. 

I  knew  he  would  n't  be  angry  with  me  for  buying 
a  row-boat ;  but  I  also  knew  that  the  little  bowsprit 
suggesting  a  jib,  and  the  tapering  mast  ready  for  its 
few  square  feet  of  canvas,  were  trifles  not  likely  to 
meet  his  approval.  As  far  as  rowing  on  the  river, 
among  the  wharves,  was  concerned,  the  Captain  had 
long  since  withdrawn  his  decided  objections,  having 
convinced  himself,  by  going  out  with  me  several 
times,  that  I  could  manage  a  pair  of  sculls  as  well  as 
anybody. 

I  was  right  in  my  surmises.  He  commanded  me, 
in  the  most  emphatic  terms,  never  to  go  out  in  the 
Dolphin  without  leaving  the  mast  in  the  boat-housa 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  DOLPHIN. 


149 


This  curtailed  my  anticipated  sport,  but  the  pleasure 
of  having  a  pull  whenever  I  wanted  it  remained.  I 
Dever  disobeyed  the  Captain's  orders  touching  the 
sail,  though  I  sometimes  extended  my  row  beyond 
the  points  he  had  indicated. 

The  river  was  dangerous  for  sail-boats.  Squalls, 
without  the  slightest  warning,  were  of  frequent  oc- 
currence ;  scarcely  a  year  passed  that  six  or  seven 
persons  were  not  drowned  under  the  very  windows 
of  the  town,  and  these,  oddly  enough,  were  generally 
sea-captains,  who  either  did  not  understand  the  river, 
or  lacked  the  skill  to  handle  a  small  craft. 

A  knowledge  of  such  disasters,  one  of  which  I  wit- 
nessed, consoled  me  somewhat  when  I  saw  Phil  Ad- 
ams skimming  over  the  water  in  a  spanking  breeze 
with  every  stitch  of  canvas  set.  There  were  few  bet- 
ter yachtsmen  than  Phil  Adams.  He  usually  went 
sailing  alone,  for  both  Fred  Langdon  and  Binny  Wal- 
lace were  under  the  same  restrictions  I  was. 

Not  long  after  the  purchase  of  the  boat,  we  planned 
an  excursion  to  Sandpeep  Island,  the  last  of  the  isl- 
ands in  the  harbor.  We  proposed  to  start  early  in 
the  morning,  and  return  with  the  tide  in  the  moon- 
light. Our  only  difficulty  was  to  obtain  a  whole 
day's  exemption  from  school,  the  customary  haK-holi- 
day  not  being  long  enough  for  our  picnic.  Somehow, 
we  could  n't  work  it;  but  fortune  arranged  it  for 
us.  I  may  say  here,  that,  whatever  else  I  did,  I 
never  played  truant  ("  hookey "  we  called  it)  in  my 
Ufa. 


150 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY". 


One  afternoon  the  four  owners  of  the  Dolphin  ex- 
changed significant  glances  when  Mr.  Grimshaw  an- 
nounced from  the  desk  that  there  would  be  no  school 
the  following  day,  he  having  just  received  intelli- 
gence of  the  death  of  his  uncle  in  Boston.  I  was 
sincerely  attached  to  Mr.  Grimshaw,  but  I  am  afraid 
that  the  death  of  his  uncle  did  not  affect  me  as  it 
ought  to  have  done. 

We  were  up  before  sunrise  the  next  morning,  in 
order  to  take  advantage  of  the  flood  tide,  which  waits 
for  no  man.  Our  preparations  for  the  cruise  were 
made  the  previous  evening.  In  the  way  of  eatables 
and  drinkables,  we  had  stored  in  the  stern  of  the 
Dolphin  a  generous  bag  of  hard-tack  (for  the  chow- 
der), a  piece  of  pork  to  fry  the  cunners  in,  three 
gigantic  apple-pies  (bought  at  Pettingil's),  half  a 
dozen  lemons,  and  a  keg  of  spring- water,  —  the  last- 
named  article  we  slung  over  the  side,  to  keep  it  cool, 
as  soon  as  we  got  under  way.  The  crockery  and  the 
bricks  for  our  camp-stove  we  placed  in  the  bows 
with  the  groceries,  which  included  sugar,  pepper, 
salt,  and  a  bottle  of  pickles.  Phil  Adams  contributed 
to  the  outfit  a  small  tent  of  unbleached  cotton  cloth, 
under  which  we  intended  to  take  our  nooning. 

We  unshipped  the  mast,  threw  in  an  extra  oar,  and 
were  ready  to  embark.  I  do  not  believe  that  Chris- 
topher Columbus,  when  he  started  on  his  rather  suc- 
cessful voyage  of  discovery,  felt  half  the  responsibility 
and  importance  that  weighed  upon  me  as  I  sat  on  the 
middle  seat  of  the  Dolphin,  with  my  oar  resting  in 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  DOLPHIN.  151 


the  row-lock.  I  wonder  if  Christopher  Columbus 
quietly  slipped  out  of  the  house  without  letting  his 
estimable  family  know  what  he  was  up  to  ? 

Charley  Harden,  whose  father  had  promised  to  cane 
him  if  he  ever  stepped  foot  on  sail  or  row  boat,  came 
down  to  the  wharf  in  a  sour-grape  humor,  to  see  us 
off.  Nothing  would  tempt  him  to  go  out  on  the 
river  in  such  a  crazy  clam-shell  of  a  boat.  He  pre- 
tended that  he  did  not  expect  to  behold  us  alive 
again,  and  tried  to  throw  a  wet  blanket  over  the 
expedition. 

"  Guess  you  'II  have  a  squally  time  of  it,"  said 
Charley,  casting  off  the  painter.  "  I  '11  drop  in  at 
old  Newbury's "  (Newbury  was  the  parish  under- 
taker) "  and  leave  word,  as  I  go  along  ! " 

"  Bosh  ! "  muttered  Phil  Adams,  sticking  the  boat- 
hook  into  the  string-piece  of  the  wharf,  and  sending 
the  Dolphin  half  a  dozen  yards  towards  the  current. 

How  calm  and  lovely  the  river  was  !  Not  a  ripple 
stirred  on  the  glassy  surface,  broken  only  by  the 
sharp  cutwater  of  our  tiny  craft.  The  sun,  as  round 
and  red  as  an  August  moon,  was  by  this  time  peering 
above  the  water-line. 

The  town  had  drifted  behind  us,  and  we  were 
entering  among  the  group  of  islands.  Sometimes 
we  could  almost  touch  with  our  boat-hook  the  shelv- 
ing banks  on  either  side.  As  we  neared  the  mouth 
of  the  harbor,  a  little  breeze  now  and  then  wrinkled 
'the  blue  water,  shook  the  spangles  from  the  foliage, 
and  gently  lifted  the  spiral  mist-wreaths  that  still 


152 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


clung  along  shore.  The  measured  dip  of  our  oars 
and  the  drowsy  twitterings  of  the  birds  seemed  to 
mingle  with,  rather  than  break,  the  enchanted  silence 
that  reigned  about  us. 

The  scent  of  the  new  clover  comes  back  to  me 
now,  as  I  recall  that  delicious  morning  when  we 
floated  away  in  a  fairy  boat  down  a  river  like  a 
dream ! 

The  sun  was  well  up  when  the  nose  of  the  Dolphin 
nestled  against  the  snow-white  bosom  of  Sandpeep 
Island.  This  island,  as  I  have  said  before,  was  the 
last  of  the  cluster,  one  side  of  it  being  washed  by 
the  sea.  We  landed  on  the  river  side,  the  sloping 
sandw  and  quiet  water  affording  us  a  good  place  to 
moor  the  boat. 

It  took  us  an  hour  or  two  to  transport  our  stores 
to  the  spot  selected  for  the  encampment.  Having 
pitched  our  tent,  using  the  five  oars  to  support  the 
canvas,  we  got  out  our  lines,  and  went  down  the  rocks 
seaward  to  fish.  It  was  early  for  cunners,  but  we 
were  lucky  enough  to  catch  as  nice  a  mess  as  ever 
you  saw.  A  cod  for  the  chowder  was  not  so  easily 
secured.  At  last  Binny  Wallace  hauled  in  a  plump 
little  fellow  crusted  all  over  with  flaky  silver. 

To  skin  the  fish,  build  our  fireplace,  and  cook  the 
chowder  kept  us  busy  the  next  two  hours.  The  fresh 
air  and  the  exercise  had  given  us  the  appetites  of 
wolves,  and  we  were  about  famished  by  the  time  the 
savory  mixture  was  ready  for  our  clam-shell  saucers. 

I  shall  not  insult  the  rising  generation  on  the 


THE  CEUISE  OF  THE  DOLPHIN. 


153 


seaboard  by  telling  them  how  delectable  is  a  chowder 
compounded  and  eaten  in  this  Eobinson  Crusoe  fash- 
ion. As  for  the  boys  who  live  inland,  and  know 
naught  of  such  marine  feasts,  my  heart  is  full  of  pity 
for  them.  What  wasted  lives  !  Not  to  know  the 
delights  of  a  clam-bake,  not  to  love  chowder,  to  be 
ignorant  of  lob-scouse ! 

How  happy  we  were,  we  four,  sitting  cross-legged 
in  the  crisp  salt  grass,  with  the  invigorating  sea-breeze 
blowing  gratefully  through  our  hair  !  What  a  joyous 
thing  was  life,  and  how  far  off  seemed  death,  —  death, 
that  lurks  in  all  pleasant  places,  and  was  so  near ! 

The  banquet  finished,  Phil  Adams  drew  from  his 
pocket  a  handful  of  sweet-fern  cigars  ;  but  as  none 
of  the  party  could  indulge  without  imminent  risk 
of  becoming  sick,  we  all,  on  one  pretext  or  another, 
declined,  and  Phil  smoked  by  himself. 

The  wind  had  freshened  by  this,  and  we  found  it 
comfortable  to  put  on  the  jackets  which  had  been 
thrown  aside  in  the  heat  of  the  day.  We  strolled 
along  the  beach  and  gathered  large  quantities  of  the 
fairy-woven  Iceland  moss,  which,  at  certain  seasons^ 
is  washed  to  these  shores ;  then  we  played  at  ducks 
and  drakes,  and  then,  the  sun  being  sufficiently  low^ 
we  went  in  bathing. 

Before  our  bath  was  ended  a  slight  change  had 
come  over  the  sky  and  sea ;  fleecy- white  clouds  scudded 
here  and  there,  and  a  muffled  moan  from  the  breakers 
caught  our  ears  from  time  to  time.  While  we  were 
dressing,  a  few  hurried  drops  of  rain  came  lisping 


154 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


down,  and  we  adjourned  to  the  tent  to  await  the  pass- 
ing of  the  squall. 

"  We  're  all  right,  anyhow,"  said  Phil  Adams.  "  It 
won't  be  much  of  a  blow,  and  we  '11  be  as  snug  as  a 
bug  in  a  rug,  here  in  the  tent,  particularly  if  we  have 
that  lemonade  which  some  of  you  fellows  were  going 
to  make." 

By  an  oversight,  the  lemons  had  been  left  in  the 
boat.    Binny  Wallace  volunteered  to  go  for  them. 

"  Put  an  extra  stone  on  the  painter,  Binny,"  said 
Adams,  calling  after  him ;  "  it  would  be  awkward  to 
have  the  Dolphin  give  us  the  slip  and  return  to  port 
minus  her  passengers." 

"  That  it  would,"  answered  Binny,  scrambling  down 
the  rocks. 

Sandpeep  Island  is  diamond-shaped,  —  one  point 
running  out  into  the  sea,  and  the  other  looking  to- 
wards the  town.  Our  tent  was  on  the  river-side. 
Though  the  Dolphin  was  also  on  the  same  side,  it  lay 
out  of  sight  by  the  beach  at  the  farther  extremity  of 
the  island. 

Binny  Wallace  had  been  absent  five  or  six  minutes, 
when  we  heard  him  calling  our  several  names  in  tones 
that  indicated  distress  or  surprise,  we  could  not  tell 
which.  Our  first  thought  was,  "  The  boat  has  broken 
adrift!" 

We  sprung  to  our  feet  and  hastened  down  to  the 
beach.  On  turning  the  bluff  which  hid  the  mooring- 
place  from  our  view,  we  found  the  conjecture  correct, 
Not  only  was  the  Dolphin  afloat,  but  poor  little  Bin- 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  DOLPHIN. 


155 


ny  Wallace  was  standing  in  the  bows  with  his  arms 
stretched  helplessly  towards  us,  —  drifting  out  to 
sea  ! 

Head  the  boat  in  shore  !"  shouted  Phil  Adams. 
Wallace  ran  to  the  tiller ;  but  the  slight  cockle- 
shell merely  swung  round  and  drifted  broadside  on. 
0,  if  we  had  but  left  a  single  scull  in  the  Dolphin ! 


DRIFTING  AWAY. 


"  Can  you  swim  it  ? "  cried  Adams,  desperately,  using 
his  hand  as  a  speaking-trumpet,  for  the  distance  be- 
tween the  boat  and  the  island  widened  momently. 


156 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


Binny  Wallace  looked  down  at  the  sea,  which  was 
covered  with  white  caps,  and  made  a  despairing  ges- 
ture. He  knew,  and  we  knew,  that  the  stoutest 
swimmer  could  not  live  forty  seconds  in  those  angry 
waters. 

A  wild,  insane  light  came  into  Phil  Adams's  eyes, 
as  he  stood  knee-deep  in  the  boiling  surf,  and  for  an 
instant  I  think  he  meditated  plunging  into  the  ocean 
after  the  receding  boat. 

The  sky  darkened,  and  an  ugly  look  stole  rapidly 
over  the  broken  surface  of  the  sea. 

Binny  Wallace  half  rose  from  his  seat  in  the  stern, 
and  waved  his  hand  to  us  in  token  of  farewell.  In 
spite  of  the  distance,  increasing  every  instant,  we 
could  see  his  face  plainly.  The  anxious  expression 
it  wore  at  first  had  passed.  It  was  pale  and  meek 
now,  and  I  love  to  think  there  was  a  kind  of  halo 
about  it,  like  that  which  painters  place  around  the 
forehead  of  a  saint.    So  he  drifted  away. 

The  sky  grew  darker  and  darker.  It  was  only  by 
straining  our  eyes  through  the  unnatural  twilight 
that  we  could  keep  the  Dolphin  in  sight.  The  figure 
of  Binny  Wallace  was  no  longer  visible,  for  the  boat 
itself  had  dwindled  to  a  mere  white  dot  on  the  black 
water.  Now  we  lost  it,  and  our  hearts  stopped  throb- 
bing ;  and  now  the  speck  appeared  again,  for  an  in- 
stant, on  the  crest  of  a  high  wave. 

Finally,  it  went  out  like  a  spark,  and  we  saw  it  no 
more.  Then  we  gazed  at  each  other,  and  dared  not 
speak. 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  DOLPHIN. 


157 


Absorbed  in  following  the  course  of  the  boat,  we 
had  scarcely  noticed  the  huddled  inky  clouds  that 
sagged  down  all  around  us.  From  these  threatening 
masses,  seamed  at  intervals  with  pale  lightning,  there 
now  burst  a  heavy  peal  of  thunder  that  shook  the 
ground  under  our  feet.  A  sudden  squall  struck  the 
sea,  ploughing  deep  white  furrows  into  it,  and  at  the 
same  instant  a  single  piercing  shriek  rose  above  the 
tempest,  —  the  frightened  cry  of  a  gull  swooping 
over  the  island.    How  it  startled  us  ! 

It  was  impossible  any  longer  to  keep  our  footing 
on  the  beach.  The  wind  and  the  breakers  would 
have  swept  us  into  the  ocean  if  we  had  not  clung  to 
each  other  with  the  desperation  of  drowning  men. 
Taking  advantage  of  a  momentary  lull,  we  crawled 
up  the  sands  on  our  hands  and  knees,  and,  pausing 
in  the  lee  of  the  granite  ledge  to  gain  breath,  returned 
to  the  camp,  where  we  found  that  the  gale  had  snapped 
all  the  fastenings  of  the  tent  but  one.  Held  by  this, 
the  puffed-out  canvas  swayed  in  the  wind  like  a  bal- 
loon. It  was  a  task  of  some  difficulty  to  secure  it, 
which  we  did  by  beating  down  the  canvas  with  the 
oars. 

After  several  trials,  we  succeeded  in  setting  up  the 
tent  on  the  leeward  side  of  the  ledge.  Blinded  by 
the  vivid  flashes  of  lightning,  and  drenched  by  the 
rain,  which  fell  in  torrents,  we  crept,  half  dead  with 
fear  and  anguish,  under  our  flimsy  shelter.  Neither 
the  anguish  nor  the  fear  was  on  our  own  account,  for 
we  were  comparatively  safe,  but  for  poor  little  Binny 


158 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


Wallace,  driven  out  to  sea  in  xlie  merciless  gale.  We 
eliuddered  to  think  of  him  in  that  frail  shell,  drifting 
on  and  on  to  his  grave,  the  sky  rent  with  lightning 
over  his  head,  and  the  green  abysses  yawning  beneath 
Inm.  We  fell  to  crying,  the  three  of  us,  and  cried  I 
know  not  how  long. 

Meanwhile  the  storm  raged  with  augmented  fury. 
We  were  obliged  to  hold  on  to  the  ropes  of  the  tent 
to  prevent  \t  blowing  away.  The  spray  from  the 
river  leaped  several  yards  up  the  rocks  and  clutched 
at  us  malignantly.  The  very  island  trembled  with 
the  concussions  of  the  sea  beating  upon  it,  and  at 
times  I  fancied  that  it  had  broken  loose  from  its 
foundation,  and  was  floating  off  with  us.  The  break- 
ers, streaked  with  angry  phosphorus,  were  fearful  to 
look  at. 

The  wind  rose  higher  and  higher,  cutting  long  slits 
in  the  tent,  through  which  the  rain  poured  inces- 
santly. To  complete  the  sum  of  our  miseries,  the 
night  was  at  hand.  It  came  down  suddenly,  at  last, 
like  a  curtain,  shutting  in  Sandpeep  Island  from  aU 
the  world. 

It  was  a  dirty  night,  as  the  sailors  say.  The  dark- 
ness was  something  that  could  be  felt  as  well  as  seen, 
—  it  pressed  down  upon  one  with  a  cold,  clammy 
touch.  Gazing  into  the  hoUow  blackness,  all  sorts 
of  imaginable  shapes  seemed  to  start  forth  from  va- 
cancy, —  brilliant  colors,  stars,  prisms,  and  dancing 
hghts.  What  boy,  lying  awake  at  night,  has  not 
amused  or  terrified  himself  by  peopling  the  spaces 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  DOLPHIN. 


159 


around  his  bed  with  these  phenomena  of  hi«  own 
eyes? 

"  I  say,"  whispered  Fred  Langdon,  at  length,  clutch- 
ing  my  hand,  "  don't  you  see  things  —  out  there  —  in- 
the  dark  ? " 

"  Yes,  yes,  —  Binny  Wallace's  face  ! " 

I  added  to  my  own  nervousness  by  making  this 
avowal ;  though  for  the  last  ten  minutes  I  had  seen 
little  besides  that  star-pale  face  with  its  angelic  hair 
and  brows.  First  a  slim  yellow  circle,  like  the  nim- 
bus round  the  moon,  took  shape  and  grew  sharp 
against  the  darkness ;  then  this  faded  gradually,  and 
there  was  the  Face,  wearing  the  same  sad,  sweet  look 
it  wore  when  he  waved  his  hand  to  us  across  the  awful 
water.    This  optical  illusion  kept  repeating  itself 

"  And  I  too,"  said  Adams.  "  I  see  it  every  now 
and  then,  outside  there.  What  would  n't  I  give  if  it 
really  was  poor  little  Wallace  looking  in  at  us  !  0 
boys,  how  shall  we  dare  to  go  back  to  the  town  with- 
out him  ?  I 've  wished  a  hundred  times,  since  we  Ve 
been  sitting  here,  that  I  was  in  his  place,  alive  or 
.  dead.f" 

We  dreaded  the  approach  of  morning  as  much  as 
we  longed  for  it.  The  morning  would  tell  us  all. 
Was  it  possible  for  the  Dolphin  to  outride  such  a 
storm  ?  There  was  a  light-house  on  Mackerel  Reef, 
which  lay  directly  in  the  course  the  boat  had  taken, 
when  it  disappeared.  If  the  Dolphin  had  caught  on 
this  reef,  perhaps  Binny  Wallace  was  safe.  Perhaps 
his  cries  had  been  heard  by  the  keeper  of  the  light 


160 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


The  man  owned  a  life-boat,  and  had  rescued  several 
people.    Who  could  tell  ? 

Such  were  the  questions  we  asked  ourselves  again 
and  again,  as  we  lay  in  each  other's  arms  waiting  for 
daybreak.  What  an  endless  night  it  was !  I  have 
known  months  that  did  not  seem  so  long. 

Our  position  was  irksome  rather  than  perilous  ;  lor 
the  day  was  certain  to  bring  us  relief  from  the  town, 
where  our  prolonged  absence,  together  with  the  storm, 
had  no  doubt  excited  the  liveliest  alarm  for  our  safety. 
But  the  cold,  the  darkness,  and  the  suspense  were 
hard  to  bear. 

Our  soaked  jackets  had  chilled  us  to  the  bone. 
To  keep  warm,  we  lay  huddled  together  so  closely 
that  we  could  hear  our  hearts  beat  above  the  tumult 
of  sea  and  sky. 

After  a  while  we  grew  very  hungry,  not  having 
broken  our  fast  since  early  in  the  day.  The  rain  had 
turned  the  hard-tack  into  a  sort  of  dough  ;  but  it  was 
better  than  nothing. 

We  used  to  laugh  at  Fred  Langdon  for  always  car- 
rying in  his  pocket  a  small  vial  of  essence  of  pepper- 
mint or  sassafras,  a  few  drops  of  which,  sprinkled  on 
a  lump  of  loaf-sugar,  he  seemed  to  consider  a  great 
luxury.  I  don't  know  what  would  have  become  of 
us  at  this  crisis,  if  it  had  n't  been  for  that  omnipresent 
bottle  of  hot  stuff.  We  poured  the  stinging  liquid 
3ver  our  sugar,  which  had  kept  dry  in  a  sardine-box, 
and  warmed  ourselves  with  frequent  doses. 

After  four  or  five  hours  the  rain  ceased,  the  wind 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  DOLPHIN. 


161 


died  away  to  a  moan,  and  the  sea  —  no  longer  raging 
like  a  maniac  —  sobbed  and  sobbed  with  a  piteous 
human  voice  all  along  the  coast.  And  well  it  might, 
after  that  night's  work.  Twelve  sail  of  the  Glouces- 
ter fishing  fleet  had  gone  down  with  every  soul  on 
board,  just  outside  of  Whale's-back  Light.  Think  of 
the  wide  grief  that  follows  in  the  wake  of  one  wreck  ; 
tlien  think  of  the  despairing  women  who  wrung  their 
hands  and  wept,  the  next  morning,  in  the  streets  of 
Gloucester,  Marblehead,  and  ^^'ewcastle  ! 

Though  our  strength  was  nearly  spent,  we  were  too 
cold  to  sleep.  Once  I  sunk  into  a  troubled  doze, 
when  I  seemed  to  hear  Charley  Harden' s  parting 
words,  only  it  was  the  Sea  that  said  them.  After 
that  I  threw  off  the  drowsiness  whenever  it  threat- 
ened to  overcome  me. 

Fred  Langdon  was  the  earliest  to  discover  a  filmy, 
luminous  streak  in  the  sky,  the  first  glimmering  of 
sunrise. 

"  Look,  it  is  nearly  daybreak  ! " 

While  we  were  following  the  direction  of  his  fin- 
ger, a  sound  of  distant  oars  fell  on  our  ears. 

We  listened  breathlessly,  and  as  the  dip  of  the 
blades  became  more  audible,  we  discerned  two  foggy 
lights,  like  will-o'-the-wisps,  floating  on  the  river. 

Eunning  down  to  the  water's  edge,  we  hailed  the 
boats  with  all  our  might.  The  call  w^as  heard,  for 
the  oars  rested  a  moment  in  the  row-locks,  and  then 
pulled  in  towards  the  island. 

It  was  two  boats  from  the  town,  in  the  foremost 


162  THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 

of  which  we  could  now  make  out  the  figures  of  Cap- 
tain Nutter  and  Binny  Wallace's  father.  We  shrunk 
back  on  seeing  him. 

"  Thank  God  ! "  cried  Mr.  Wallace,  fervently,  as  he 
leaped  from  the  wherry  without  waiting  for  the  bow 
to  touch  the  beach. 

But  when  he  saw  only  three  boys  standing  on  the 
sands,  his  eye  wandered  restlessly  about  in  quest  of 
the  fourth ;  then  a  deadly  pallor  overspread  his  fea- 
tures. 

Our  story  was  soon  told.  A  solemn  silence  fell 
upon  the  crowd  of  rough  boatmen  gathered  round, 
interrupted  only  by  a  stifled  sob  from  one  poor  old 
man,  who  stood  apart  from  the  rest. 

The  sea  was  still  running  too  high  for  any  small 
boat  to  venture  out;  so  it  was  arranged  that  the 
wherry  should  take  us  back  to  town,  leaving  the 
yawl,  with  a  picked  crew,  to  hug  the  island  until 
daybreak,  and  then  set  forth  in  search  of  the  Dolphin. 

Though  it  was  barely  sunrise  when  we  reached 
town,  there  were  a  great  many  people  assembled 
at  the  landing  eager  for  intelligence  from  missing 
boats.  Two  picnic  parties  had  started  down  river  the 
day  before,  just  previous  to  the  gale,  and  nothing 
had  been  heard  of  them.  It  turned  out  that  the 
pleasure-seekers  saw  their  danger  in  time,  and  ran 
ashore  on  one  of  the  least  exposed  islands,  where 
they  passed  the  night.  Shortly  after  our  own  arrival 
they  appeared  off  Ei vermouth,  much  to  the  joy  of 
their  friends,  in  two  shattered,  dismasted  boats. 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  DOLPHIN. 


163 


The  excitement  over,  I  was  in  a  forlorn  state,  phys- 
ically and  mentally.  Captain  Nutter  put  me  to  bed 
between  hot  blankets,  and  sent  Kitty  Collins  for  the 
doctor.  I  was  wandering  in  my  mind,  and  fancied 
myself  still  on  Sandpeep  Island  :  now  we  were  build- 
ing our  brick-stove  to  cook  the  chowder,  and,  in  my 
delirium,  I  laughed  aloud  and  shouted  to  my  com- 
rades ;  now  the  sky  darkened,  and  the  squall  struck 
the  island :  now  I  gave  orders  to  Wallace  how  to 
manage  the  boat,  and  now  I  cried  because  the  rain 
was  pouring  in  on  me  through  the  holes  in  the  tent. 
Towards  evening  a  high  fever  set  in,  and  it  was  many 
days  before  my  grandfather  deemed  it  prudent  to  tell 
me  that  the  Dolphin  had  been  found,  floating  keel 
upwards,  four  miles  southeast  of  Mackerel  Eeef. 

Poor  little  Binny  Wallace  !  How  strange  it  seemed, 
when  I  went  to  school  again,  to  see  that  empty  seat 
in  the  fifth  row  !  How  gloomy  the  playground  was, 
lacking  the  sunshine  of  his  gentle,  sensitive  face ! 
One  day  a  folded  sheet  slipped  from  my  algebra ;  it 
was  the  last  note  he  ever  wrote  me.  I  could  n't  read 
it  for  the  tears. 

What  a  pang  shot  across  my  heart  the  afternoon  it 
was  whispered  through  the  town  that  a  body  had 
been  washed  ashore  at  Grave  Point,  —  the  place 
where  we  bathed.  We  bathed  there  no  more  !  How 
well  I  remember  the  funeral,  and  what  a  piteous 
sight  it  was  afterwards  to  see  his  familiar  name  on 
a  small  headstone  in  the  Old  South  Burying  Ground  ! 

Poor  little  Binny  W  allace !    Always  the  same  to 


1G4 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


me.  The  rest  of  us  have  grown  up  into  hard,  world- 
ly men,  figliting  the  fight  of  life ;  but  you  are  forever 
young,  and  gentle,  and  pure ;  a  part  of  my  own 
childhood  that  time  cannot  wither;  always  a  little 
boy.  always  poor  little  Binny  Wallace  ! 


AN  OLD  ACQUAINTANCE  TURNS  UP. 


165 


CHAPTEE  XV. 


AN  OLD  ACQUAINTANCE  TURNS  UP. 


YEAE  had  stolen  by  since 
the  death  of  Binny  Wal- 
lace,—  a  year  of  which  I 
have  nothing  important  to 
record. 

The  loss  of  our  little 
playmate  threw  a  shadow- 
over  our  young  lives  for 
many  and  many  a  month. 
The  Dolphin  rose  and  fell 
with  the  tide  at  the  foot  of 
the  slippery  steps,  unused, 
the  rest  of  the  summer. 
At  the  close  of  November 
we  hauled  her  sadly  into 
the  boat-house  for  the  win- 
ter ;  but  when  spring  came 
round  we  launched  the  Dol- 
phin again,  and  often  went 
down  to  the  wharf  and  looked  at  her  lying  in  the 
tangled  eel-grass,  without  much  inclination  to  take  a 
row.  The  associations  connected  with  the  boat  were 
too  painful  as  yet ;  but  time,  which  wears  the  sharp 


166 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


edge  from  everything,  softened  this  feeling,  and  one 
afternoon  we  brought  out  the  cobwebbed  oars. 

The  ice  once  broken,  brief  trips  along  the  wharves 
■ —  we  seldom  cared  to  go  out  into  the  river  now  — 
became  one  of  our  chief  amusements.  Meanwhile 
Gypsy  was  not  forgotten.  Every  clear  morning  I 
was  in  the  saddle  before  breakfast,  and  there  are  few 
roads  or  lanes  within  ten  miles  of  Eivermouth  that 
have  not  borne  the  print  of  her  vagrant  hoof. 

I  studied  like  a  good  fellow  this  quarter,  carrying 
off  a  couple  of  first  prizes.  The  Captain  expressed 
his  gratification  by  presenting  me  with  a  new  silver 
dollar.  If  a  dollar  in  his  eyes  was  smaller  than  a 
cart-wheel,  it  was  n't  so  very  much  smaller.  I  re- 
deemed my  pencil-case  from  the  treasurer  of  the 
Centipedes,  and  felt  that  I  was  getting  on  in  the 
world. 

It  was  at  this  time  I  was  greatly  cast  down  by  a 
letter  from  my  father  saying  that  he  should  be  unable 
to  visit  Eivermouth  until  the  following  year.  With 
that  letter  came  another  to  Captain  Nutter,  which  he 
did  not  read  aloud  to  the  family,  as  usual.  It  was 
on  business,  he  said,  folding  it  up  in  his  waUet.  He 
received  several  of  these  business  letters  from  time 
to  time,  and  I  noticed  that  they  always  made  him 
silent  and  moody. 

The  fact  is,  my  father's  banking-house  was  not 
thriving.  The  unlooked-for  failure  of  a  firm  largely 
indebted  to  him  had  crippled  "the  house."  When 
the  Captain  imparted  this  information  to  me  I  did  n't 


AN  OLD  ACQUAINTANCE  TURNS  UP.  167 

trouble  myself  over  the  matter.  I  supposed  —  if  I 
supposed  anything  —  that  all  grown-up  people  had 
more  or  less  money,  when  they  wanted  it.  Whether 
they  inherited  it,  or  whether  government  supplied 
them,  was  not  clear  to  me.  A  loose  idea  that  my 
father  had  a  private  gold-mine  somewhere  or  other 
relieved  me  of  all  uneasiness. 

I  was  not  far  from  right.  Every  man  has  within 
himself  a  gold-mine  whose  riches  are  limited  only  by 
his  own  industry.  It  is  true,  it  sometimes  happens 
that  industry .  does  not  avail,  if  a  man  lacks  that 
something  which,  for  want  of  a  better  name,  we  call 
Luck.  My  father  was  a  person  of  untiring  energy 
and  ability ;  but  he  had  no  luck.  To  use  a  Eiver- 
mouth  saying,  he  was  always  catching  sculpins  when 
every  one  else  with  the  same  bait  was  catching  mack- 
erel. 

It  was  more  than  two  years  since  I  had  seen  my 
parents.  I  felt  that  I  could  not  bear  a  longer  separa- 
tion. Every  letter  from  New  Orleans  —  we  got  two 
or  three  a  month  —  gave  me  a  fit  of  homesickness ; 
and  when  it  was  definitely  settled  that  my  father  and 
mother  were  to  remain  in  the  South  another  twelve- 
month, I  resolved  to  go  to  them. 

Since  Binny  Wallace's  death.  Pepper  AVhitcomb 
had  been  my  fidus  Achates  ;  we  occupied  desks  near 
each  other  at  school,  and  were  always  together  in  play 
hours.  We  rigged  a  twine  telegraph  from  his  garret 
window  to  the  scuttle  of  the  ]N"utter  House,  and  sent 
messages  to  each  other  in  a  match-box.    We  shared 


168 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


our  pocket-money  and  our  secrets,  —  those  amazing 
secrets  which  boys  have.  We  met  in  lonely  places 
by  stealth,  and  parted  like  conspirators  ;  we  could  n't 
buy  a  jackknife  or  build  a  kite  without  throwing  an 
air  of  mystery  and  guilt  over  the  transaction. 

I  naturally  hastened  to  lay  my  New  Orleans  pro- 
ject before  Pepper  Whitcomb,  having  dragged  him 
for  that  purpose  to  a  secluded  spot  in  the  dark  pine 
woods  outside  the  town.  Pepper  listened  to  me  with 
a  gravity  which  he  will  not  be  able  to  surpass  when 
he  becomes  Chief  Justice,  and  strongly  advised  me 
to  go. 

"The  summer  vacation,"  said  Pepper,  "lasts  six 
weeks ;  that  will  give  you  a  fortnight  to  spend  in 
New  Orleans,  allowing  two  weeks  each  way  for  the 
journey." 

I  wrung  his  hand  and  begged  him  to  accompany 
me,  offering  to  defray  all  the  expenses.  I  was  n't 
anything  if  I  was  n't  princely  in  those  days.  After 
considerable  urging,  he  consented  to  go  on  terms  so 
liberal.  The  whole  thing  was  arranged;  there  was 
nothing  to  do  now  but  to  advise  Captain  Nutter  of 
my  plan,  which  I  did  the  next  day. 

The  possibility  that  he  might  oppose  the  tour  never 
entered  my  head.  I  was  therefore  totally  unpre- 
pared for  the  vigorous  negative  which  met  my  pro- 
posal. I  was  deeply  mortified,  moreover,  for  there  was 
Pepper  Whitcomb  on  the  wharf,  at  the  foot  of  the 
street,  waiting  for  me  to  come  and  let  him  know 
what  day  we  were  to  start. 


AN  OLD  ACQUAINTANCE  TUKNS  UP. 


169 


"  Go  to  New  Orleans  ?  Go  to  Jericho  ! "  exclaimed 
Captain  Nutter.  "  You 'd  look  pretty,  you  two,  phi- 
landering off,  like  the  babes  in  the  wood,  twenty-five 
hundred  miles,  '  with  all  the  world  before  you  where 
to  choose ' ! " 

And  the  Captain's  features,  which  had  worn  an 
indignant  air  as  he  began  the  sentence,  relaxed  into 
a  broad  smile.  Whether  it  was  at  the  felicity  of  his 
own  quotation,  or  at  the  mental  picture  he  drew  of 
Pepper  and  myseK  on  our  travels  I  could  n't  tell,  and 
I  did  n't  care.  I  was  heart-broken.  How  could  I 
face  my  chum  after  all  the  dazzling  inducements  I 
had  held  out  to  him  ? 

My  grandfather,  seeing  that  I  took  the  matter  seri- 
ously, pointed  out  the  difficulties  of  such  a  journey 
and  the  great  expense  involved.  He  entered  into  the 
details  of  my  father's  money  troubles,  and  succeeded 
in  making  it  plain  to  me  that  my  wishes,  under  the 
circumstances,  were  somewhat  unreasonable.  It  was 
in  no  cheerful  mood  that  I  joined  Pepper  at  the  end 
of  the  wharf 

I  found  that  young  gentleman  leaning  against  the 
bulkhead  gazing  intently  towards  the  islands  in  the 
harbor.  He  had  formed  a  telescope  of  his  hands,  and 
was  so  occupied  with  his  observations  as  to  be  obliv- 
ious of  my  approach. 

"  Hullo  ! "  cried  Pepper,  dropping  his  hands. 
"  Look  there  I  is  n't  that  a  bark  coming  up  the  Nar- 
rows ? " 

"  Where?" 


170 


THE  STORY  OP  A  BAD  BOY. 


"  Just  at  the  left  of  Fish  crate  Island.  Don't  you 
see  the  foremast  peeping  above  the  old  derrick  ? " 

Sure  enough  it  was  a  vessel  of  considerable  size, 
slowly  beating  up  to  town.  In  a  few  moments  more 
the  other  two  masts  were  visible  above  the  green 
hillocks. 

"  Fore-topmasts  blown  away,"  said  Pepper.  "  Put- 
ting in  for  repairs,  I  guess." 

As  the  bark  lazily  crept  from  behind  the  last  of 
the  islands,  she  let  go  her  anchors  and  swung  round 
with  the  tide.  Then  the  gleeful  chant  of  the  sailors 
■at  the  capstan  came  to  us  pleasantly  across  the  water. 
The  vessel  lay  within  three  quarters  of  a  mile  of  us, 
and  we  could  plainly  see  the  men  at  the  davits  low- 
ering the  starboard  long-boat.  It  no  sooner  touched 
the  stream  than  a  dozen  of  the  crew  scrambled  like 
mice  over  the  side  of  the  merchantman. 

In  a  neglected  seaport  like  Eivermouth  the  arrival 
of  a  large  ship  is  an  event  of  moment.  The  pros- 
pect of  having  twenty  or  thirty  jolly  tars  let  loose  on 
the  peaceful  town  excites  divers  emotions  among  the 
inhabitants.  The  small  shopkeepers  along  the  wharves 
anticipate  a  thriving  trade ;  the  proprietors  of  the 
two  rival  boarding-houses  —  the  "  Wee  Drop  "  and 
the  "  Mariner's  Home  "  —  hasten  down  to  the  landing 
to  secure  lodgers ;  and  the  female  population  of  An- 
chor Lane  turn  out  to  a  woman,  for  a  ship  fresh  from 
sea  is  always  full  of  possible  husbands  and  long-lost 
prodigal  sons. 

But  aside  from  this  there  is  scant  welcome  given 


AN  OLD  ACQUAINTANCE  TURNS  UP.  171 


fco  a  ship's  crew  in  Rivermouth.  The  toil-worn  mar- 
iner is  a  sad  fellow  ashore,  judging  him  by  a  severe 
moral  standard. 

Once,  I  remember,  a  United  States  frigate  came 
into  port  for  repairs  after  a  storm.  She  lay  in  the 
river  a  fortnight  or  more,  and  every  day  sent  us  a 
gang  of  sixty  or  seventy  of  our  country's  gallant 
defenders,  who  spread  themselves  over  the  town,  do- 
ing all  sorts  of  mad  things.  They  were  good-natured 
enough,  but  fuU  of  old  Sancho.  The  "Wee  Drop" 
proved  a  drop  too  much  for  many  of  them.  They 
went  singing  through  the  streets  at  midnight,  wring- 
ing off  door-knockers,  shinning  up  water-spouts,  and 
frightening  the  Oldest  Inhabitant  nearly  to  death  by 
popping  their  heads  into  his  second-story  window,  and 
shouting  "  Fire  1 "  One  morning  a  blue  jacket  was 
discovered  in  a  perilous  plight,  half-way  up  the  stee- 
ple of  the  South  Church,  clinging  to  the  lightning- 
rod.  How  he  got  there  nobody  could  tell,  not  even 
blue-jacket  himseE  All  he  knew  was,  that  the  leg 
of  his  trousers  had  caught  on  a  nail,  and  there  he 
stuck,  unable  to  move  either  way.  It  cost  the  town 
twenty  dollars  to  get  him  down  again.  He  directed 
the  workmen  how  to  splice  the  ladders  brought  to  his 
assistance,  and  called  his  rescuers  "butter-fingered 
land-lubbers  "  with  delicious  coolness. 

But  those  were  man-of-war's  men.  The  sedate- 
looking  craft  now  lying  off  Fishcrate  Island  was  n't 
likely  to  carry  any  such  cargo.  Nevertheless,  we 
watched  the  coming  in  of  the  long-boat  with  consid- 
erable interest. 


172 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


As  it  drew  near,  the  figure  of  the  man  pulling 
the  bow-oar  seemed  oddly  familiar  to  me.  Where 
could  I  have  seen  him  before  ?  When  and  where  ? 
His  back  was  towards  me,  but  there  was  something 
about  that  closely  cropped  head  that  I  recognized  in- 
stantly. 

"  Way  enough  ! "  cried  the  steersman,  and  all  the 
oars  stood  upright  in  the  air.  The  man  in  the  bow 
seized  the  boat-hook,  and,  turning  round  quickly, 
showed  me  the  honest  face  of  Sailor  Ben  of  the  Ty- 
phoon. 

"  It 's  Sailor  Ben  ! "  I  cried,  nearly  pushing  Pepper 
Whitcomb  overboard  in  my  excitement. 

Sailor  Ben,  with  the  wonderful  pink  lady  on  his 
arm,  and  the  ships  and  stars  and  anchors  tattooed  all 
over  him,  was  a  weU-known  hero  among  my  play- 
mates. And  there  he  was,  like  something  in  a  dream 
come  true  ! 

I  did  n't  wait  for  my  old  acquaintance  to  get  firmly 
on  the  wharf,  before  I  grasped  his  hand  in  both  of 
mine. 

"  Sailor  Ben,  don't  you  remember  me  ? " 

He  evidently  did  not.  He  shifted  his  quid  from  one 
cheek  to  the  other,  and  looked  at  me  meditatively. 

"  Lord  love  ye,  lad,  I  don't  know  you.  I  was  never 
here  afore  in  my  life." 

"  What !  "  I  cried,  enjoying  his  perplexity,  "  have 
you  forgotten  the  voyage  from  New  Orleans  in  the 
Typhoon,  two  years  ago,  you  lovely  old  picture- 
book?" 


AN  OLD  ACQUAINTANCE  TURNS  UP.  173 


Ah  !  then  he  knew  me,  and  in  token  of  the  recol- 
lection gave  my  hand  such  a  squeeze  that  I  am  sure 
an  unpleasant  change  came  over  my  countenance. 

"  Bless  my  eyes,  but  you  have  growed  so.  I  should 
n't  have  knowed  you  if  I  had  met  you  in  Singa- 
pore ! " 

Without  stopping  to  inquire,  as  I  was  tempted  to 
do,  why  he  was  more  likely  to  recognize  me  in  Singa- 
pore than  anywhere  else;  I  invited  him  to  come  at 
once  up  to  the  Nutter  House,  where  I  insured  him  a 
warm  welcome  from  the  Captain. 

"  Hold  steady,  Master  Tom,"  said  Sailor  Ben,  slip- 
ping the  painter  through  the  ringbolt  and  tying  the 
loveliest  knot  you  ever  saw  ;  "  hold  steady  till  I  see 
if  the  mate  can  let  me  off.  If  you  please,  sir,"  he 
continued,  addressing  the  steersman,  a  very  red-faced, 
bow-legged  person,  "  this  here  is  a  little  shipmate  o' 
mine  as  wants  to  talk  over  back  times  along  of  me,  if 
so  it 's  convenient. 

"  All  right,  Ben,"  returned  the  mate ;  "  sha'  n't  want 
you  for  an  hour." 

Leaving  one  man  in  charge  of  the  boat,  the  mate 
and  the  rest  of  the  crew  went  off  together.  In  the 
mean  while  Pepper  Whitcomb  had  got  out  his  cunner- 
line,  and  was  quietly  fishing  at  the  end  of  the  wharf, 
as  if  to  give  me  the  idea  that  he  was  n't  so  very  much 
impressed  by  my  intimacy  with  so  renowned  a  char- 
acter as  Sailor  Ben.  Perhaps  Pepper  was  a  little 
jealous.  At  any  rate,  he  refused  to  go  with  us  to  the 
house. 


174 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


Captain  Nutter  was  at  home  reading  the  Kiver- 
mouth  Barnacle.  He  was  a  reader  to  do  an  editor's 
heart  good  ;  he  never  skipped  over  an  advertisement, 
even  if  he  had  read  it  fifty  times  before.  Then  the 
paper  went  the  rounds  of  the  neighborhood,  among 
the  poor  people,  like  the  single  portable  eye  which 
the  three  blind  crones  passed  to  each  other  in  the 
legend  of  King  Acrisius.  The  Captain,  I  repeat,  was 
wandering  in  the  labyrinths  of  the  Rivermouth 
Barnacle  when  I  led  Sailor  Ben  into  the  sitting- 
room. 

My  grandfather,  whose  inborn  courtesy  knew  no 
distinctions,  received  my  nautical  friend  as  if  he  had 
been  an  admiral  instead  of  a  common  forecastle-hand. 
Sailor  Ben  pulled  an  imaginary  tuft  of  hair  on  his 
forehead,  and  bowed  clumsily.  Sailors  have  a  way 
of  using  their  forelock  as  a  sort  of  handle  to  bow 
with. 

The  old  tar  had  probably  never  been  in  so  hand- 
some an  apartment  in  all  his  days,  and  nothing  could 
induce  him  to  take  the  inviting  mahogany  chair  which 
the  Captain  wheeled  out  from  the  corner. 

The  abashed  mariner  stood  up  against  the  wall, 
twirling  his  tarpaulin  in  his  two  hands  and  looking 
extremely  silly.  He  made  a  poor  show  in  a  gentle- 
man's drawing-room,  but  what  a  fellow  he  had  been 
in  his  day,  when  the  gale  blew  great  guns  and  the 
topsails  wanted  reefing  !  I  thought  of  him  with  the 
Mexican  squadron  off  Vera  Cruz,  where 

**  The  rushing  battle-bolt  sung  from  the  three-decker  out  of  the  foam," 


AN  OLD  ACQUAINTANCE  TURNS  UP. 


and  he  did  n't  seem  awkward  or  ignoble  to  me,  for  all 
his  shyness. 

As  Sailor  Ben  declined  to  sit  down,  the  Captain 
did  not  resume  his  seat ;  so  we  three  stood  in  a  con- 
strained manner  until  my  grandfather  went  to  the 
door  and  called  to  Kitty  to  bring  in  a  decanter  of 
Madeira  and  two  glasses. 

"  My  grandson,  here,  has  talked  so  much  about 
you,"  said  the  Captain,  pleasantly,  "  that  you  seem 
quite  like  an  old  acquaintance  to  me." 

"  Thankee,  sir,  thankee,"  returned  Sailor  Ben,  look- 
ing as  guilty  as  if  he  had  been  detected  in  picking  a 
pocket. 

"  And  I 'm  very  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  —  Mr.  —  " 

"  Sailor  Ben,"  suggested  that  worthy. 

"  Mr.  Sailor  Ben,"  added  the  Captain,  smiling. 
"  Tom,  open  the  door,  there  's  Kitty  with  the 
glasses." 

I  opened  the  door,  and  Kitty  entered  the  room 
bringing  the  things  on  a  waiter,  which  she  was  about 
to  set  on  the  table,  when  suddenly  she  uttered  a  loud 
shriek ;  the  decanter  and  glasses  fell  with  a  crash  to 
the  floor,  and  Kitty,  as  white  as  a  sheet,  was  seen 
flying  through  the  hall. 

"  It 's  his  wraith  !  It 's  his  wraith  *  ! "  we  heard 
Kitty  shrieking,  in  the  kitchen. 

My  grandfather  and  I  turned  with  amazement  to 
Sailor  Ben.  His  eyes  were  standing  out  of  his  head 
like  a  lobster's. 

*  Ghost,  spirit. 


176. 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


THE  RECOGNITION. 


"  It 's  my  own  little  Irish  lass  ! "  shouted  the  sailor, 
and  he  darted  into  the  hall  after  her. 

Even  then  we  scarcely  caught  the  meaning  of  his 
words,  but  when  we  saw  Sailor  Ben  and  Kitty  sob- 
bing on  each  other's  shoulder  in  the  kitchen,  we  un- 
derstood it  all. 

"  I  begs  your  honor's  parden,  sir,"  said  Sailor  Ben, 
lifting  his  tear-stained  face  above  Kitty's  tumbled 
hair ;  "  I  begs  your  honor's  parden  for  kicking  up  9 


AN  OLD  ACQUAINTANCE  TURNS  UP.  177 


rumpus  in  the  house,  but  it 's  my  own  little  Irish 
lass  as  I  lost  so  long  ago ! " 

"  Heaven  preserve  us  ! "  cried  the  Captain,  blowing 
his  nose  violently,  —  a  transparent  ruse  to  hide  his 
emotion. 

Miss  Abigail  was  in  an  upper  chamber,  sweeping  ; 
but  on  hearing  the  unusual  racket  below,  she  scented 
an  accident  and  came  ambling  down  stairs  with  a 
bottle  of  the  infallible  hot-drops  in  her  hand.  Noth- 
ing but  the  firmness  of  my  grandfather  prevented  her 
from  giving  Sailor  Ben  a  table-spoonful  on  the  spot. 
But  when  she  learned  what  had  come  about,  —  that 
this  was  Ejtty's  husband,  that  Kitty  Collins  was  n't 
Kitty  Collins  now,  but  Mrs.  Benjamin  Watson  of 
Nantucket,  —  the  good  soul  sat  down  on  the  meal- 
chest  and  sobbed  as  if — to  quote  from  Captain  Nut- 
ter —  as  if  a  husband  of  her  own  had  turned  up  ! 

A  happier  set  of  people  than  we  were  never  met 
together  in  a  dingy  kitchen  or  anywhere  else.  The 
Captain  ordered  a  fresh  decanter  of  Madeira,  and 
made  all  hands,  excepting  myself,  drink  a  cup  to  the 
return  of  "the  prodigal  sea-son,"  as  he  persisted  in 
calling  Sailor  Ben. 

After  the  first  flush  of  joy  and  surprise  was  over 
Kitty  grew  silent  and  constrained.  Now  and  then  she 
fixed  her  eyes  thoughtfully  on  her  husband.  Why  had 
he  deserted  her  all  these  long  years  ?  Wliat  right  had 
he  to  look  for  a  welcome  from  one  he  had  treated  so 
cruelly  ?  She  had  been  true  to  him,  but  had  he  been 
true  to  her?    Sailor  Ben  must  have  guessed  what 


178 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


was  passing  in  her  mind,  for  presently  he  took  her 
hand  and  said,  — 

"  Well,  lass,  it 's  a  long  yarn,  but  you  shall  have  it 
all  in  good  time.  It  was  my  hard  luck  as  made  us 
part  company,  an'  no  will  of  mine,  for  I  loved  you 
dear." 

Kitty  brightened  up  immediately,  needing  no  other 
assurance  of  Sailor  Ben's  faithfulness. 

When  his  hour  had  expired,  we  walked  with  him 
down  to  the  wharf,  where  the  Captain  held  a  con- 
sultation with  the  mate,  which  resulted  in  an  exten- 
sion of  Mr.  Watson's  leave  of  absence,  and  after- 
wards in  his  discharge  from  his  ship.  We  then  went 
to  the  "  Mariner's  Home  "  to  engage  a  room  for  him 
as  he  would  n't  hear  of  accepting  the  hospitalities  of 
the  Nutter  House. 

"  You  see,  I 'm  only  an  uneddicated  man,"  he  re- 
marked to  my  grandfather,  by  way  of  explanation. 


IN  WHICH  SAILOR  BEN  SPINS  A  YARN.  179 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

m  WHICH  SAILOR  BEN  SPINS  A  YARN. 

r  .p  course  we  were  all  very 

curious  to  learn  what  had 
befallen  Sailor  Ben  that 
morning  long  ago,  when  he 
bade  his  little  bride  good 
by  and  disappeared  so  mys- 
teriously. 

After  tea,  that  same  even- 
ing, we  assembled  around 
the  table  in  the  kitchen, — 
the  only  place  where  Sailor 
Ben  felt  at  home,  —  to  hear 
what  he  had  to  say  for  him- 
self. 

The  candles  were  snuffed, 
and  a  pitcher  of  foaming 
nut-brown  ale  was  set  at 
the  elbow  of  the  speaker, 
who  was  evidently  embar- 
rassed by  the  respectability  of  his  audience,  consist- 
ing of  Captain  Nutter.  Miss  Abigail,  myself,  and 
Kitty,  whose  face  shone  with  happiness  like  one  of 
the  polished  tin  platters  on  the  dresser. 


180 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


"Well,  my  hearties,"  commenced  Sailor  Ben, — 
then  he  stopped  short  and  turned  very  red,  as  it 
struck  him  that  maybe  this  was  not  quite  the  proper 
way  to  address  a  dignitary  like  the  Captain  and  a 
severe  elderly  lady  like  Miss  Abigail  Nutter,  who 
sat  bolt  upright  staring  at  him  as  she  would  have 
stared  at  the  Tycoon  of  Japan  himself. 

"  I  ain't  much  of  a  hand  at  spinnin'  a  yam,"  re- 
marked Sailor  Ben,  apologetically,  "'specially  when 
the  yarn  is  all  about  a  man  as  has  made  a  fool  of 
hisself,  an'  'specially  when  that  man's  name  is  Ben- 
jamin Watson." 

"  Bravo ! "  cried  Captain  Nutter,  rapping  on  the 
table  encouragingly. 

"  Thankee,  sir,  thankee.  I  go  back  to  the  time 
when  Kitty  an'  me  was  livin'  in  lodgin's  by  the  dock 
in  New  York.  We  was  as  happy,  sir,  as  two  por- 
pusses,  which  they  toil  not  neither  do  they  spin.  But 
when  I  seed  the  money  gittin'  low  in  the  locker,  — 
Kitty's  starboard  stockin',  savin'  your  presence,  marm, 

—  I  got  down-hearted  like,  seein'  as  I  should  be 
obleeged  to  ship  agin,  for  it  did  n't  seem  as  I  could 
do  much  ashore.  An'  then  the  sea  was  my  nat'ral 
spear  of  action.  I  was  n't  exactly  born  on  it,  look 
you,  but  I  fell  into  it  the  fust  time  I  was  let  out 
arter  my  birth.  My  mother  slipped  her  cable  for  a 
heavenly  port  afore  I  was  old  enough  to  hail  her ;  so 
I  larnt  to  look  on  the  ocean  for  a  sort  of  step-mother, 

—  an'  a  precious  hard  one  she  has  been  to  me. 

"  The  idee  of  leavin'  Kitty  so  soon  arter  our  mar^ 


IN  WHICH  SAILOR  BEN  SPINS  A  YARN.  181 


riage  went  agin  my  grain  considerable.  I  cruised 
along  the  docks  for  somethin'  to  do  in  the  way  of 
stevedore :  an'  though  I  picked  up  a  stray  job  here 
and  there,  I  did  n't  am  enough  to  buy  ship-bisket  for 
a  rat,  let  alone  feedin'  two  human  mouths.  There 
was  n't  nothin'  honest  I  would  n't  have  turned  a 
hand  to ;  but  the  'longshoremen  gobbled  up  all  the 
work,  an'  a  outsider  like  me  did  n't  stand  a  show. 

"  Things  got  from  bad  to  worse ;  the  month's  rent 
took  all  our  cash  except  a  dollar  or  so,  an'  the  sky 
looked  kind  o'  squally  fore  an'  aft.  Well,  I  set  out 
one  mornin',  —  that  identical  unlucky  mornin',  — 
determined  to  come  back  an'  toss  some  pay  into 
Kitty's  lap,  if  I  had  to  sell  my  jacket  for  it.  I  spied 
a  brig  unloadin'  coal  at  pier  No.  47,  —  how  well  I  re- 
members it !  I  hailed  the  mate,  an'  offered  myself 
for  a  coal-heaver.  But  I  was  n't  wanted,  as  he  told 
me  civilly  enough,  which  was  better  treatment  than 
usual.  As  I  turned  off  rather  glum  I  was  signalled 
by  one  of  them  sleek,  smooth-spoken  rascals  with  a 
white  hat  an'  a  weed  on  it,  as  is  always  goin'  about 
the  piers  a-seekin'  who  they  may  devower. 

"We  sailors  know  'em  for  rascals  from  stem  to 
starn,  but  somehow  every  fresh  one  fleeces  us  jest  as 
his  mate  did  afore  him.  We  don't  larn  nothin'  by 
exper'ence ;  we  're  jest  no  better  than  a  lot  of  babbys 
with  no  brains. 

"  '  Good  mornin',  my  man,'  sez  the  chap,  as  iley  as 
you  please. 

"  '  Mornin',  sir,'  sez  I 


3  82  THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 

" '  Lookili'  for  a  job  ? '  sez  he. 

"  '  Through  the  big  end  of  a  telescope,'  sez  I,  — • 
meanin'  that  the  chances  for  a  job  looked  very  small 
from  my  pint  of  view. 

"  'You  're  the  man  for  my  money/  sez  the  sharper, 
smilin'  as  innocent  as  a  cherubim ;  '  jest  step  in  here, 
till  we  talk  it  over.' 

"  So  I  goes  with  him  like  a  nat'ral-born  idiot,  into 
a  little  grocery-shop  near  by,  where  we  sets  down  at 
a  table  with  a  bottle  atween  us.  Then  it  comes  out 
as  there  is  a  New  Bedford  whaler  about  to  start  for 
the  fishin'  grounds,  an'  jest  one  able-bodied  sailor  hke 
me  is  wanted  to  make  up  the  crew.  Would  I  go  ? 
Yes,  I  would  n't  on  no  terms. 

" '  I  '11  bet  you  fifty  doUars,'  sez  he, '  that  you  'U 
^ome  back  fust  mate.' 

" '  I  'U  bet  you  a  hundred,'  sez  I,  '  that  I  don't,  for 
1  've  signed  papers  as  keeps  me  ashore,  an'  the  par- 
^}on  has  witnessed  the  deed.' 

"  So  we  sat  there,  he  urgin'  me  to  ship,  an'  I  chaf&n' 
him  cheerful  over  the  bottle. 

"  Arter  a  while  I  begun  to  feel  a  little  queer ;  things 
got  foggy  in  my  upper  works,  an'  I  remembers,  faint- 
like, of  signin'  a  paper ;  then  I  remembers  bein'  in  a 
small  boat;  an'  then  I  remembers  nothin'  until  I 
heard  the  mate's  whistle  pipin'  aU  hands  on  deck.  I 
tumbled  up  with  the  rest,  an'  there  I  was,  —  on  board 
of  a  whaler  outward  bound  for  a  three  years'  cruise, 
an'  my  dear  little  lass  ashore  awaitin'  for  me." 

"  Miserable  wretch  ! "  said  Miss  Abigail,  in  a  voice 


IN  WHICH  SAILOR  BEN  SPINS  A  YARN.  183 


SAILOR  BEN   AND   THE  LAND-SHARK. 


that  vibrated  among  the  tin  platters  on  the  dresser. 
This  was  Miss  Abigail's  way  of  testifying  her  sympa- 
thy. 

"Thankee,  marm/'  returned  Sailor  Ben,  doubt- 
fuUy. 

"  No  talking  to  the  man  at  the  wheel,"  cried  the 
Captain.  Upon  which  we  all  laughed.  "  Spin  ! " 
added  my  grandfather. 

Sailor  Ben  resumed :  — 


184 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


"  I  leave  you  to  guess  the  wretchedness  as  fell  upon 
me,  for  I 've  not  got  the  gift  to  tell  you.  There  I  was 
down  on  the  ship's  books  for  a  three  years'  viage,  an' 
no  help  for  it.  I  feel  nigh  to  six  hundred  years  old 
when  I  think  how  long  that  viage  was.  There  is  n't 
no  hour-glass  as  runs  slow  enough  to  keep  a  tally  of 
the  slowness  of  them  fust  hours.  But  I  done  my 
duty  like  a  man,  seein'  there  was  n't  no  way  of  gettin' 
out  of  it.  I  told  my  shipmates  of  the  trick  as  had 
\)een  played  on  me,  an'  they  tried  to  cheer  me  up  a 
bit ;  but  I  was  sore  sorrowful  for  a  long  spell.  Many 
a  night  on  watch  I  put  my  face  in  my  hands  and 
sobbed  for  thinkin'  of  the  little  woman  left  among 
the  land-sharks,  an'  no  man  to  have  an  eye  on  her, 
God  bless  her  !  " 

Here  Kitty  softly  drew  her  chair  nearer  to  Sailor 
Ben,  and  rested  one  hand  on  his  arm. 

"  Our  adventures  among  the  whales,  I  take  it,  does 
n't  consarn  the  present  company  here  assembled.  So 
I  give  that  the  go  by.  There 's  an  end  to  everythin', 
even  to  a  whalin'  viage.  My  heart  all  but  choked  me 
the  day  we  put  into  New  Bedford  with  our  cargo  of 
ile.  I  got  my  three  years'  pay  in  a  lump,  an'  made 
for  ISTew  York  like  a  flash  of  lightnin'.  The  people 
hove  to  and  looked  at  me,  as  I  rushed  through  the 
streets  like  a  madman,  until  I  came  to  the  spot  where 
the  lodgin'-house  stood  on  West  Street.  But,  Lord 
love  ye,  there  was  n't  no  sech  lodgin'-house  there,  but 
a  great  new  brick  shop. 

"  I  made  bold  to  go  in  an'  ask  arter  the  old  place, 


IN  WHICH  SAILOR  BEN  SPINS  A  YARN.  185 


but  nobody  knowed  nothin'  about  it,  save  as  it  had 
been  torn  down  two  years  or  more.  I  was  adrift  now, 
for  I  had  reckoned  all  them  days  and  nights  on  gittin* 
word  of  Kitty  from  Dan  Shackford,  the  man  as  kept 
the  lodgin'. 

"  As  I  stood  there  with  all  the  wind  knocked  out 
of  my  sails,  the  idee  of  runnin'  alongside  the  perlice- 
station  popped  into  my  head.  The  perlice  was  likely 
to  know  the  latitude  of  a  man  like  Dan  Shackford, 
who  was  n't  over  an'  above  respecktible.  They  did 
know,  —  he  had  died  in  the  Tombs  jail  that  day 
twelvemonth.  A  coincydunce,  was  n't  it  ?  I  was 
ready  to  drop  when  they  told  me  this ;  howsomever, 
I  bore  up  an'  give  the  chief  a  notion  of  the  fix  I  was 
in.  He  writ  a  notice  which  I  put  into  the  news- 
papers every  day  for  three  months  ;  but  nothin'  come 
of  it.  I  cruised  over  the  city  week  in  and  week  out ; 
I  went  to  every  sort  of  place  where  they  hired  women 
hands  ;  I  did  n't  leave  a  think  undone  that  a  uneddi- 
cated  man  could  do.  But  nothin'  come  of  it.  I  don't 
believe  there  was  a  wretcheder  soul  in  that  big  city 
of  wretchedness  than  me.  Sometimes  I  wanted  to 
lay  down  in  the  streets  and  die. 

"  Driftin'  disconsolate  one  day  among  the  shippin', 
who  should  I  overhaul  but  the  identical  smooth- 
spoken chap  with  a  white  hat  an'  a  weed  on  it !  I 
did  n't  know  if  there  was  any  sperit  left  in  me,  till 
I  clapped  eye  on  his  very  onpleasant  countenance. 
*  You  villain  ! '  sez  I,  '  where 's  my  little  Irish  lass  as 
you  dragged  me  away  from  ? '  an'  I  lighted  on  him, 
hat  and  all,  like  that ! " 


186 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


Here  Sailor  Ben  brought  his  fist  down  on  the  deal 
table  with  the  force  of  a  sledge-hammer.  Miss  Abi- 
gail gave  a  start,  and  the  ale  leaped  up  in  the  pitcher 
like  a  miniature  fountain. 

"  I  begs  your  parden,  ladies  and  gentlemen  all ;  but 
the  thought  of  that  feller  with  his  ring  an'  his  watch- 
chain  an'  his  walrus  face,  is  alus  too  many  for  me.  I 
was  for  pitchin'  him  into  the  North  Eiver,  when  a 
perliceman  prevented  me  from  benefitin'  the  human 
family.  I  had  to  pay  five  dollars  for  hittin'  the 
chap  (they  said  it  was  salt  and  buttery),  an'  that 's 
what  I  call  a  neat,  genteel  luxury.  It  was  worth 
double  the  money  jest  to  see  that  white  hat,  with  a 
weed  on  it,  layin'  on  the  wharf  like  a  busted  accor- 
diun. 

"  Arter  months  of  useless  sarch,  I  went  to  sea  agin. 
I  never  got  into  a  foren  port  but  I  kept  a  watch  out 
for  Kitty.  Once  I  thought  I  seed  her  in  Liverpool, 
but  it  was  only  a  gal  as  looked  like  her.  The  num- 
bers of  women  in  different  parts  of  the  world  as 
looked  like  her  was  amazin'.  So  a  good  many  years 
crawled  by,  an'  I  wandered  from  place  to  place,  never 
givin'  up  the  sarch.  I  might  have  been  chief  mate 
scores  of  times,  maybe  master  ;  but  I  had  n't  no  am- 
bition. I  seed  many  strange  things  in  them  years, 
—  outlandish  people  an'  cities,  storms,  shipwracks, 
an'  battles.  I  seed  many  a  true  mate  go  down,  an' 
sometimes  I  envied  them  what  went  to  their  rest. 
But  these  things  is  neither  here  nor  there. 

"  About  a  year  ago  I  shipped  on  board  the  Bel- 


IN  WHICH  SAILOR  BEN  SPINS  A  YARN.  187 


phoebe  yonder,  an'  of  all  the  strange  winds  as  ever 
blowed,  the  strangest  an'  the  best  was  the  wind  as 
blowed  me  to  this  here  blessed  spot.  I  can't  be  too 
thankful.  That  I 'm  as  thankful  as  it  is  possible 
for  an  uneddicated  man  to  be,  He  knows  as  reads 
the  heart  of  all." 

Here  ended  Sailor  Ben's  yarn,  which  I  have  writ- 
ten down  in  his  own  homely  words  as  nearly  as  I  can 
recall  them.  After  he  had  finished,  the  Captain 
shook  hands  with  him  and  served  out  the  ale. 

As  Kitty  was  about  to  drink,  she  paused,  rested 
the  cup  on  her  knee,  and  asked  what  day  of  the 
month  it  was. 

"  The  twenty-seventh,"  said  the  Captain,  wondering 
what  she  was  driving  at. 

"  Then,"  cried  Kitty,  "  it 's  ten  years  this  night 
sence  —  " 

"  Since  what  ?  "  asked  my  grandfather. 

"  Sence  the  little  lass  and  I  got  spliced  ! "  roared 
Sailor  Ben.   "  There 's  another  coincydunce  for  you  ! " 

On  hearing  this  we  all  clapped  hands,  and  the 
Captain,  with  a  degree  of  ceremony  that  was  almost 
painful,  drank  a  bumper  to  the  health  and  happiness 
of  the  bride  and  bridegroom. 

It  was  a  pleasant  sight  to  see  the  two  old  lovers 
sitting  side  by  side,  in  spite  of  all,  drinking  from  the 
same  little  cup,  —  a  battered  zinc  dipper  which  Sailor 
Ben  had  unslung  from  a  strap  round  his  waist.  I  think 
I  never  saw  him  without  this  dipper  and  a  sheath-knife 
suspended  just  back  of  his  hip,  ready  for  any  conviv- 
ial occasion.  - 


188 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


We  liad  a  merry  time  of  it.  The  Captain  was  in 
great  force  this  evening,  and  not  only  related  his  fa- 
mous exploit  in  the  war  of  1812,  but  regaled  the 
company  with  a  dashing  sea-song  from  Mr.  Shake- 
speare's play  of  The  Tempest.  He  had  a  mellow 
tenor  voice  (not  Shakespeare,  but  the  Captain),  and 
rolled  out  the  verse  with  a  will :  — 

*'  The  master,  the  swabber,  the  boatswain,  and  I, 
The  gunner,  and  his  mate, 
Lov'd  Mall,  Meg,  and  Marian,  and  Margery, 
But  none  of  us  car'd  for  Kate." 

"  A  very  good  song,  and  very  well  sung,"  says  Sai- 
lor Ben ;  "  but  some  of  us  does  care  for  Kate.  Is  this 
Mr.  Shawkspear  a  sea-farin'  man,  sir  ? " 

"  Not  at  present,"  replied  the  Captain,  with  a  mon- 
strous twinkle  in  his  eye. 

The  clock  was  striking  ten  when  the  party  broke 
up.  The  Captain  walked  to  the  "  Mariner's  Home  " 
with  his  guest,  in  order  to  question  him  regarding 
his  future  movements. 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  he,  "  I  ain't  as  young  as  I  was, 
an'  T  don't  cal'ulate  to  go  to  sea  no  more.  I  proposes 
to  drop  anchor  here,  an'  hug  the  land  until  the  old 
hulk  goes  to  pieces.  I 've  got  two  or  three  thousand 
dollars  in  the  locker,  an'  expects  to  get  on  uncommon 
comfortable  without  askin'  no  odds  from  the  Assylum 
for  Decayed  Mariners." 

My  grandfather  indorsed  the  plan  warmly,  and 
Sailor  Ben  did  drop  anchor  in  Eivermouth,  where  he 
speedily  became  one  of  the  institutions  of  the  town. 


IN  WHICH  SAILOR  BEN  SPINS  A  YARN.  189 

His  first  step  was  to  buy  a  small  one-story  cottage 
located  at  the  head  of  the  wharf,  within  gun-shot  of 
the  ISTutter  House.  To  the  great  amusement  of  my 
grandfather,  Sailor  Ben  painted  the  cottage  a  light 
sky-blue,  and  ran  a  broad  black  stripe  around  it  just 
under  the  eaves.  In  this  stripe  he  painted  white 
port-holes,  at  regular  distances,  making  his  residence 
look  as  much  like  a  man-of-war  as  possible.  With  a 
short  flag-staff  projecting  over  the  door  like  a  bow- 
sprit, the  effect  was  quite  magical.  My  description 
of  the  exterior  of  this  palatial  residence  is  complete 
when  I  add  that  the  proprietor  nailed  a  horseshoe 
against  the  front  door  to  keep  off  the  witches,  —  a 
very  necessary  precaution  in  these  latitudes. 

The  inside  of  Sailor  Ben's  abode  was  not  less  strik- 
ing than  the  outside.  The  cottage  contained  two 
rooms ;  the  one  opening  on  the  wharf  he  called  his 
cabin  ;  here  he  ate  and  slept.  His  few  tumblers  and 
a  frugal  collection  of  crockery  were  set  in  a  rack 
suspended  over  the  table,  which  had  a  cleat  of  wood 
nailed  round  the  edge  to  prevent  the  dishes  from 
sliding  off  in  case  of  a  heavy  sea.  Hanging  against 
the  walls  were  three  or  four  highly  colored  prints  of 
celebrated  frigates,  and  a  lithograph  picture  of  a  rosy 
young  woman  insufficiently  clad  in  the  American 
flag.  This  was  labelled  "  Kitty,"  though  I 'm  sure  it 
looked  no  more  like  her  than  I  did.  A  walrus-tooth 
with  an  Esquimaux  engraved  on  it,  a  shark's  jaw,  and 
the  blade  of  a  sword-fish  were  among  the  enviable 
decorations  of  this  apartment.    In  one  corner  stood 


190 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


his  bunk,  or  bed,  and  in  the  other  his  well-worn  sea- 
chest,  a  perfect  Pandora's  box  of  mysteries.  You 
would  have  thought  yourseK  in  the  cabin  of  a  real 
ship. 

The  little  room  aft,  separated  from  the  cabin  by  a 
sliding  door,  was  the  caboose.  It  held  a  cooking- 
stove,  pots,  pans,  and  groceries  ;  also  a  lot  of  fishing- 
lines  and  coils  of  tarred  twine,  which  made  the  place 
smeU  like  a  forecastle,  and  a  delightful  smell  it  is  — 
to  those  who  fancy  it. 

Kitty  did  n't  leave  our  service,  but  played  house- 
keeper for  both  establishments,  returning  at  night  to 
Sailor  Ben's.  He  shortly  added  a  wherry  to  his 
worldly  goods,  and  in  the  fishing  season  made  a  very 
handsome  income.  During  the  winter  he  employed 
himself  manufacturing  crab-nets,  for  which  he  foimd 
no  lack  of  customers. 

His  popularity  among  the  boys  was  immense.  A 
jackknife  in  his  expert  hand  was  a  whole  chest  of 
tools.  He  could  whittle  out  anything  from  a  wooden 
chain  to  a  Chinese  pagoda,  or  a  full-rigged  seventy- 
four  a  foot  long.  To  own  a  ship  of  Sailor  Ben's 
building  was  to  be  exalted  above  your  fellow-crea- 
tures. He  did  n't  carve  many,  and  those  he  refused 
to  sell,  choosing  to  present  them  to  his  young  friends, 
of  whom  Tom  Bailey,  you  may  be  sure,  was  one. 

How  delightful  it  was  of  winter  nights  to  sit  in 
his  cosey  cabin,  close  to  the  ship's  stove  (he  would  n't 
hear  of  having  a  fireplace),  and  listen  to  Sailor  Ben's 
yarns  !    In  the  early  summer  twilights,  when  he  sat 


IN  WHICH  SAILOR  BEN  SPINS  A  YARN.  191 


on  the  door-step  splicing  a  rope  or  mending  a  net, 
he  always  had  a  bevy  of  blooming  young  faces  along- 
side. 

The  dear  old  fellow !  How  tenderly  the  years 
touched  him  after  this  !  —  all  the  more  tenderly,  it 
seemed,  for  having  roughed  him  so  crueUy  in  other 
days. 


192  THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY, 

CHAPTER  XVII. 

HOW  WE  ASTONISHED  THE  RIVERMOUTHIANS. 

AILOR  BEN'S  arrival  part, 
ly  drove  the  New  Orleans 
project  from  my  brain.  Be- 
sides, there  was  just  then  a 
certain  movement  on  foot 
by  the  Centipede  Club 
which  helped  to  engross 
my  attention. 

Pepper  Whitcomb  took 
the  Captain's  veto  philo- 
sophically, observing  that 
he  thought  from  the  first 
the  governor  wouldn't  let 
me  go.  I  don't  think  Pep- 
per was  quite  honest  in 
that. 

But  to  th^  subject  in 
hand. 

Among  the  few  changes  that  have  taken  place  in 
Kivermouth  during  the  past  twenty  years  there  is 
one  which  I  regret.  I  lament  the  removal  of  all 
those  varnished  iron  cannon  which  used  to  do  duty 
as  posts  at  the  corners  of  streets  leading  from  the 


now  WE  ASTONISHED  THE  RIVERMOaTHIANS.  193 

river.  They  were  *quaintly  ornamental,  each  set 
upon  end  with  a  solid  shot  soldered  into  its  mouth, 
and  gave  to  that  part  of  the  town  a  picturesqueness 
very  poorly  atoned  for  by  the  conventional  wooden 
stakes  that  have  deposed  them. 

These  guns  ("  old  sogers  "  the  boys  called  them) 
had  their  story,  like  everything  else  in  Ei vermouth. 
When  that  everlasting  last  war  —  the  war  of  1812, 
I  mean  —  came  to  an  end,  all  the  brigs,  schooners, 
and  barks  fitted  out  at  this  port  as  privateers  were 
as  eager  to  get  rid  of  their  useless  twelve-pounders 
and  swivels  as  they  had  previously  been  to  obtain 
them.  Many  of  the  pieces  had  cost  large  sums,  and 
now  they  were  little  better  than  so  much  crude  iron, 
—  not  so  good,  in  fact,  for  they  were  clumsy  things 
to  break  up  and  melt  over.  The  government  did  n't 
want  them ;  private  citizens  did  n't  want  them ;  they 
were  a  drug  in  the  market. 

But  there  was  one  man,  ridiculous  beyond  his 
generation,  who  got  it  into  his  head  that  a  fortune 
was  to  be  made  out  of  these  same  guns.  To  buy 
them  all,  to  hold  on  to  them  until  war  was  declared 
again  (as  he  had  no  doubt  it  would  be  in  a  few 
months),  and  then  sell  out  at  fabulous  prices,  — 
this  was  the  daring  idea  that  addled  the  pate  of 
Silas  Trefethen,  "Dealer  in  E.  &  W.  I.  Goods  and 
Glroceries,"  as  the  faded  sign  over  liis  shop-door  in- 
formed the  public. 

Silas  went  shrewdly  to  work,  buying  up  every  old 
cannon  he  could  lay  hands  on.    His  back-yard  was 


194 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


soon  crowded  with  broken-down  gun-carriages,  and 
bis  barn  with  guns,  like  an  arsenal.  When  Silas's 
purpose  got  wind  it  was  astonishing  how  valuable 
that  thing  became  which  just  now  was  worth  noth- 
ing at  all. 

"  Ha,  ha  ! "  thought  Silas  ;  "  somebody  else  is  try- 
in'  tu  git  control  of  the  market.  But  I  guess  I 've 
got  the  start  of 

So  he  went  on  buying  and  buying,  oftentimes  pay- 
ing double  the  original  price  of  the  article.  People 
in  the  neighboring  towns  collected  all  the  worthless 
ordnance  they  could  find,  and  sent  it  by  the  cart-load 
to  Rivermouth. 

Wlien  his  barn  was  full,  Silas  began  piling  the 
rubbish  in  his  cellar,  then  in  his  parlor.  He  mort- 
gaged the  stock  of  his  grocery-store,  mortgaged  his 
house,  his  barn,  his  horse,  and  would  have  mortgaged 
himself,  if  any  one  would  have  taken  him  as  security, 
m  order  to  carry  on  the  grand  speculation.  He  was 
a  ruined  man,  and  as  happy  as  a  lark. 

Surely  poor  Silas  was  cracked,  like  the  majority  of 
his  own  cannon.  More  or  less  crazy  he  must  have 
been  always.  Years  before  this  he  purchased  an 
elegant  rosewood  coffin,  and  kept  it  in  one  of  the 
spare  rooms  in  his  residence.  He  even  had  his  name 
engraved  on  the  silver-plate,  leaving  a  blank  after 
the  word  "  Died." 

The  blank  was  filled  up  in  due  time,  and  well  it 
Vvas  for  Silas  that  he  secured  so  stylish  a  coffin  in 
ills  opulent  days,  for  when  he  died  his  worldly  wealth 


HOW  WE  ASTONISHED  THE  RIVERMOUTHIANS.  195 

would  not  have  bought  him  a  pine  box,  to  say  noth- 
ing of  rosewood.  He  never  gave  up  expecting  a  war 
with  Great  Britain.  Hopeful  and  radiant  to  the  last, 
his  dying  words  were,  England  —  war  —  few  days  — 
great  profits  ! 

It  was  that  sweet  old  lady,  Dame  Jocelyn,  who 
told  me  the  story  of  Silas  Trefethen  ;  for  these  things 
happened  long  before  my  day.    Silas  died  in  1817. 

At  Trefethen's  death  his  unique  collection  came 
under  the  auctioneer's  hammer.  Some  of  the  larger 
guns  were  sold  to  the  town,  and  planted  at  the  cor- 
ners of  divers  streets ;  others  went  off  to  the  iron- 
foundry  ;  the  balance,  numbering  twelve,  were  dumped 
down  on  a  deserted  wharf  at  the  foot  of  Anchor  Lane, 
where,  summer  after  summer,  they  rested  at  their  ease 
in  the  grass  and  fungi,  pelted  in  autumn  by  the  rain 
and  annually  buried  by  the  winter  snow.  It  is  with 
these  twelve  guns  that  our  story  has  to  deal. 

The  wharf  where  they  reposed  was  shut  off  from 
the  street  by  a  high  fence,  —  a  silent,  dreamy  old 
wharf,  covered  with  strange  weeds  and  mosses.  On 
account  of  its  seclusion  and  the  good  fishing  it 
afforded,  it  was  much  frequented  by  us  boys. 

There  we  met  many  an  afternoon  to  throw  out  our 
lines,  or  play  leap-frog  among  the  rusty  cannon.  They 
were  famous  fellows  in  our  eyes.  What  a  racket  they 
had  made  in  the  heyday  of  their  unchastened  youth  1 
What  stories  they  might  tell  now,  if  their  puffy  me- 
tallic lips  could  only  speak !  Once  they  were  lively 
talkers  enough;  but  there  the  grim  sea-dogs  lay. 


196 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


silent  and  forlorn  in  spite  of  all  their  former  growl- 
ings. 

They  always  seemed  to  me  like  a  lot  of  venerable 
disabled  tars,  stretched  out  on  a  lawn  in  front  of  a 
hospital,  gazing  seaward,  and  mutely  lamenting  their 
lost  youth. 

But  once  more  they  were  destined  to  lift  up  their 
dolorous  voices,  —  once  more  ere  they  keeled  over 
and  lay  speechless  for  all  time.  And  this  is  how  it 
befeU. 

Jack  Harris,  Charley  Harden,  Harry  Blake,  and 
myself  were  fishing  off  the  wharf  one  afternoon, 
when  a  thought  flashed  upon  me  like  an  inspira- 
tion. 

"  I  say,  boys  ! "  I  cried,  hauling  in  my  line  hand 
over  hand,  "  I 've  got  something  I " 

"  What  does  it  pull  like,  youngster  ?  "  asked  Harris, 
looking  down  at  the  taut  line  and  expecting  to  see  a 
big  perch  at  least. 

"  0,  nothing  in  the  fish  way,"  I  returned,  laughing ; 
"  it 's  about  the  old  guns." 

"  What  about  them  ? " 

"  I  was  thinking  what  jolly  fun  it  would  be  to  set 
one  of  the  old  sogers  on  his  legs  and  serve  him  out 
a  ration  of  gunpowder." 

Up  came  the  three  lines  in  a  jiffy.  An  enterprise 
better  suited  to  the  disposition  of  my  companions 
could  not  have  been  proposed. 

In  a  short  time  we  had  one  of  the  smaller  cannon 
over  on  its  back  and  were  busy  scraping  the  greeij 


HOW  WE  ASTONISHED  THE  RIVERMOUTHIANS.  197 

rust  from  the  toucli-hole.  The  mould  had  spiked  the 
gun  so  effectually,  that  for  a  while  we  fancied  we 
should  have  to  give  up  our  attempt  to  resuscitate  the 
old  soger. 

"  A  long  gimlet  would  clear  it  out,"  said  Charley 
Harden,  "  if  we  only  had  one." 

I  looked  to  see  if  Sailor  Ben's  flag  was  flying  at 
the  cabin  door,  for  he  always  took  in  the  colors  when 
he  went  off  fishing. 

"  When  you  want  to  know  if  the  Admiral's  aboard, 
jest  cast  an  eye  to  the  buntin',  my  hearties,"  says 
Sailor  Ben. 

Sometimes  in  a  jocose  mood  he  called  himself  the 
Admiral,  and  I  am  sure  he  deserved  to  be  one.  The 
Admiral's  flag  was  flying,  and  I  soon  procured  a  gimlet 
from  his  carefully  kept  tool-chest. 

Before  long  we  had  the  gun  in  working  order.  A 
newspaper  lashed  to  the  end  of  a  lath  served  as  a 
swab  to  dust  out  the  bore.  Jack  Harris  blew  through 
the  touch-hole  and  pronounced  all  clear. 

Seeing  our  task  accomplished  so  easily,  we  turned 
our  attention  to  the  other  guns,  which  lay  in  all  sorts 
of  postures  in  the  rank  grass.  Borrowing  a  rope  from 
Sailor  Ben,  we  managed  with  immense  labor  to  drag 
the  heavy  pieces  into  position  and  place  a  brick  under 
each  muzzle  to  give  it  the  proper  elevation.  When 
we  beheld  them  all  in  a  row,  like  a  regular  battery, 
we  simultaneously  conceived  an  idea,  the  magnitude 
of  which  struck  us  dumb  for  a  moment. 

Our  first  intention  was  to  load  and  fire  a  single 


198 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


gun.  How  feeble  and  insignificant  was  sucli  a  plan 
compared  to  that  which  now  sent  the  light  dancing 
into  our  eyes  ! 

"  What  could  we  have  been  thinking  of  ?  "  cried 
Jack  Harris.  "  We  '11  give  'em  a  broadside,  to  be 
sure,  if  we  die  for  it ! " 

We  turned  to  with  a  will,  and  before  nightfall  had 
nearly  half  the  battery  overhauled  and  ready  for  ser- 
vice. To  keep  the  artillery  dry  we  stuffed  wads  of 
loose  hemp  into  the  muzzles,  and  fitted  wooden  pegs 
to  the  touch-holes. 

At  recess  the  next  noon  the  Centipedes  met  in  a 
corner  of  the  school-yard  to  talk  over  the  proposed 
lark.  The  original  projectors,  though  they  would 
have  liked  to  keep  the  thing  secret,  were  obhged  to 
make  a  club  matter  of  it,  inasmuch  as  funds  were  re- 
quired for  ammunition.  There  had  been  no  recent 
drain  on  the  treasury,  and  the  society  could  weU 
afford  to  spend  a  few  dollars  in  so  notable  an  under- 
taking. 

It  was  unanimously  agreed  that  the  plan  should  be 
carried  out  in  the  handsomest  manner,  and  a  subscrip- 
tion to  that  end  was  taken  on  the  spot.  Several  of 
the  Centipedes  had  n't  a  cent,  excepting  the  one 
strung  around  their  necks  ;  others,  however,  were 
richer.  I  chanced  to  have  a  dollar,  and  it  went  into 
the  cap  quicker  than  lightning.  When  the  club,  in 
view  of  my  munificence,  voted  to  name  the  guns 
Bailey's  Battery  I  was  prouder  than  I  have  ever  been 
since  over  anything. 


HOW  WE  ASTONISHED  THE  RIVERMOUTHIANS.  199 


The  money  thus  raised,  added  to  that  already  in  the 
treasury,  amounted  to  nine  dollars,  —  a  fortune  in 
those  days  ;  but  not  more  than  we  had  use  for.  This 
sum  was  divided  into  twelve  parts,  for  it  would  not 
do  for  one  boy  to  buy  all  the  powder,  nor  even  for  us 
all  to  make  our  purchases  at  the  same  place.  That 
would  excite  suspicion  at  any  time,  particularly  at  a 
period  so  remote  from  the  Fourth  of  July. 

There  were  only  three  stores  in  town  licensed  to 
sell  powder ;  that  gave  each  store  four  customers. 
Not  to  run  the  slightest  risk  of  remark,  one  boy 
bought  his  powder  on  Monday,  the  next  boy  on  Tues- 
day, and  so  on  until  the  requisite  quantity  was  in  our 
possession.  This  we  put  into  a  keg  and  carefully  hid 
in  a  dry  spot  on  the  wharf. 

Our  next  step  was  to  finish  cleaning  the  guns, 
which  occupied  two  afternoons,  for  several  of  the  old 
sogers  were  in  a  very  congested  state  indeed.  Having 
completed  the  task,  we  came  upon  a  difficulty.  To 
set  off  the  battery  by  daylight  was  out  of  the  ques- 
tion ;  it  must  be  done  at  night ;  it  must  be  done  with 
fuses,  for  no  doubt  the  neighbors  would  turn  out 
after  the  first  two  or  three  shots,  and  it  would  not 
pay  to  be  caught  in  the  vicinity. 

Who  knew  anything  about  fuses  ?  Who  could  ar- 
range it  so  the  guns  would  go  off  one  after  the  other, 
with  an  interval  of  a  minute  or  so  between  ? 

Theoretically  we  knew  that  a  minute  fuse  lasted  a 
minute  ;  double  the  quantity,  two  minutes  ;  but  prac- 
tically we  were  at  a  stand-still.    There  was  but  one 


200 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


person  who  could  help  us  in  this  extremity,  —  Sailor 
Ben.  To  me  was  assigned  the  duty  of  obtaining 
what  information  I  could  from  the  ex-gunner,  it  be- 
ing left  to  my  discretion  whether  or  not  to '  intrust 
him  with  our  secret. 

So  one  evening  I  dropped  into  the  cabin  and  art- 
fully turned  the  conversation  to  fuses  in  general,  and 
then  to  particular  fuses,  but  without  getting  much 
out  of  the  old  boy,  who  was  busy  making  a  twine 
hammock.  Finally,  I  was  forced  to  divulge  the  whole 
plot. 

The  Admiral  had  a  sailor's  love  for  a  joke,  and  en- 
tered at  once  and  heartily  into  our  scheme.  He  vol- 
unteered to  prepare  the  fuses  himself,  and  I  left  the 
labor  in  his  hands,  having  bound  him  by  several  ex- 
traordinary oaths,  —  such  as  "  Hope-I-may-die  "  and 
"  Shiver-my-timbers,"  —  not  to  betray  us,  come  what 
would. 

This  was  Monday  evening.  On  Wednesday  the 
fuses  were  ready.  That  night  we  were  to  unmuzzle 
Bailey's  Battery.  Mr.  Grimshaw  saw  that  some- 
thing was  wrong  somewhere,  for  we  were  restless  and 
absent-minded  in  the  classes,  and  the  best  of  us  came 
to  grief  before  the  morning  session  was  over.  "XAlien 
Mr.  Grimshaw  announced  "  Guy  Fawkes  "  as  the  sub- 
ject for  our  next  composition,  you  might  have 
knocked  down  the  Mystic  Twelve  with  a  feather. 

The  coincidence  was  certainly  curious,  but  when  a 
man  has  committed,  or  is  about  to  commit  an  offence, 
a  hundred  trifles,  which  would  pass  unnoticed  at 


HOW  WE  ASTONISHED  THE  RIVEEMOUTHIANS.  201 


another  time,  seem  to  point  at  him  with  convicting 
fingers.  No  doubt  Guy  Fawkes  himself  received 
many  a  start  after  he  had  got  his  wicked  kegs  of  gun- 
powder neatly  piled  up  under  the  House  of  Lords. 

Wednesday,  as  I  have  mentioned,  was  a  half-holi- 
day, and  the  Centipedes  assembled  in  my  barn  to  de- 
cide on  the  final  arrangements.  These  were  as  sim- 
ple £is  could  be.  As  the  fuses  were  connected,  it 
needed  but  one  person  to  fire  the  train.  Hereupon 
arose  a  discussion  as  to  who  was  the  proper  person. 
Some  argued  that  I  ought  to  apply  the  match,  the 
battery  being  christened  after  me,  and  the  main  idea, 
moreover,  being  mine.  Others  advocated  the  claim 
of  Phil  Adams  as  the  oldest  boy.  At  last  we  drew 
lots  for  the  post  of  honor. 

Twelve  slips  of  folded  paper,  upon  one  of  which 
w^as  written  "  Thou  art  the  man,"  were  placed  in  a 
quart  measure,  and  thoroughly  shaken ;  then  each 
member  stepped  up  and  lifted  out  his  destiny.  At  a 
given  signal  we  opened  our  billets.  "Thou  art  the 
man,"  said  the  slip  of  paper  trembling  in  my  fingers. 
The  sweets  and  anxieties  of  a  leader  were  mine  the 
rest  of  the  afternoon. 

Directly  after  twilight  set  in  Phil  Adams  stole 
down  to  the  wharf  and  fixed  the  fuses  to  the  guns, 
laying  a  train  of  powder  from  the  principal  fuse  to 
the  fence,  through  a  chink  of  which  I  was  to  drop  the 
match  at  midnight. 

At  ten  o'clock  Rivermouth  goes  to  bed.  At  eleven 
o'^ilock  Rivermouth  is  as  quiet  as  a  country  churchyard. 

9* 


202 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


At  twelve  o'clock  there  is  nothing  left  with  which  to 
compare  the  stillness  that  broods  over  the  little  seaport 

In  the  midst  of  this  stillness  I  arose  and  glided  out 
of  the  house  like  a  phantom  bent  on  an  evil  errand ; 
like  a  phantom  I  flitted  through  the  silent  street, 
hardly  drawing  breath  until  I  knelt  down  beside  the 
fence  at  the  appointed  place. 

Pausing  a  moment  for  my  heart  to  stop  thumping, 
I  lighted  the  match  and  shielded  it  with  both  hands 
until  it  was  well  under  way,  and  then  dropped  the 
blazing  splinter  on  the  slender  thread  of  gunpowder. 

A  noiseless  flash  instantly  followed,  and  all  was 
dark  again.  I  peeped  through  the  crevice  in  the 
fence,  and  saw  the  main  fuse  spitting  out  sparks  like 
a  conjurer.  Assured  that  the  train  had  not  failed,  I 
took  to  my  heels,  fearful  lest  the  fuse  might  burn 
more  rapidly  than  we  calculated,  and  cause  an  explo- 
sion before  I  could  get  home.  This,  luckily,  did  not 
happen.  There 's  a  special  Providence  that  watches 
over  idiots,  drunken  men,  and  boys. 

I  dodged  the  ceremony  of  undressing  by  plunging 
into  bed,  jacket,  boots,  and  all.  I  am  not  sure  I  took 
off  my  cap  ;  but  I  know  that  I  had  hardly  pulled  the 
coverlid  over  me,  when  "  Boom  ! "  sounded  the  first 
gun  of  Bailey's  Battery. 

I  lay  as  still  as  a  mouse.  In  less  than  two  min- 
utes there  was  another  burst  of  thunder,  and  then 
another.  The  third  gun  was  a  tremendous  feUow  and 
fairly  shook  the  house. 

The  town  was  waking  up.    Windows  were  thrown 


HOW  WE  ASTONISHED  THE  RIVERMOUTHIANS.  203 

open  here  and  there  and  people  called  to  each  other 
across  the  streets  asking  what  that  firing  was  for. 

"  Boom  ! "  went  gun  number  four. 

I  sprung  out  of  bed  and  tore  off  my  jacket,  for  I 
heard  the  Captain  feeling  his  way  along  the  wall  to 
my  chamber.  I  was  half  undressed  by  the  time  he 
found  the  knob  of  the  door. 

"  I  say,  sir,"  I  cried,  "  do  you  hear  those  guns  ?  " 

"  'Not  being  deaf,  I  do,"  said  the  Captain,  a  little 
tartly,  —  any  reflection  on  his  hearing  always  nettled 
him ;  "  but  what  on  earth  they  are  for  I  can't  con- 
ceive.   You  had  better  get  up  and  dress  yourself" 
I 'm  nearly  dressed,  sir." 

"  Boom  !  Boom  ! "  —  two  of  the  guns  had  gone  off 
together. 

The  door  of  Miss  Abigail's  bedroom  opened  has- 
tily, and  that  pink  of  maidenly  propriety  stepped  out 
into  the  hall  in  her  night-gown,  —  the  only  indecorous 
thing  I  ever  knew  her  to  do.  She  held  a  lighted  can- 
dle in  her  hand  and  looked  like  a  very  aged  Lady 
Macbeth. 

"  0  Dan' el,  this  is  dreadful !  What  do  you  suppose 
it  means  ? " 

"  I  really  can't  suppose,"  said  the  Captain,  rubbing 
his  ear ;  "  but  I  guess  it 's  over  now." 

"  Boom  ! "  said  Bailey's  Battery. 

Eivermouth  was  wide  awake  now,  and  half  the 
male  population  were  in  the  streets,  running  different 
ways,  for  the  firing  seemed  to  proceed  from  opposite 
points  of  the  town.    Everybody  waylaid  everybody 


204 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


else  with  questions ;  but  as  no  one  knew  what  was 
the  occasion  of  the  tumult,  people  who  were  not 
usually  nervous  began  to  be  oppressed  by  the  mys- 
tery. 

Some  thought  the  town  was  being  bombarded ; 
some  thought  the  world  was  coming  to  an  end,  as 
the  pious  and  ingenious  Mr.  Miller  had  predicted  it 
would ;  but  those  who  could  n't  form  any  theory 
whatever  were  the  most  perplexed. 

In  the  mean  while  Bailey's  Battery  bellowed  away 
at  regular  intervals.  The  greatest  confusion  reigned 
everywhere  by  this  time.  People  with  lanterns 
rushed  hither  and  thither.  The  town-watch  had 
turned  out  to  a  man,  and  marched  off,  in  admirable 
order,  in  the  wrong  direction.  Discovering  their 
mistake,  they  retraced  their  steps,  and  got  down  to 
the  wharf  just  as  the  last  cannon  belched  forth  its 
lightninof. 

A  dense  cloud  of  sulphurous  smoke  floated  over 
Anchor  Lane,  obscuring  the  starlight.  Two  or  three 
hundred  people,  in  various  stages  of  excitement, 
crowded  about  the  upper  end  of  the  wharf,  not  lik- 
ing to  advance  farther  until  they  were  satisfied  that 
the  explosions  were  over.  A  board  was  here  and 
there  blown  from  the  fence,  and  through  the  open- 
ings thus  afforded  a  few  of  the  more  daring  spirits 
at  length  ventured  to  crawl. 

The  cause  of  the  racket  soon  transpired.  A  sus- 
picion that  they  had  been  sold  gradually  dawned  on 
the  Rivermouthians.    Many  were  exceedingly  indig- 


HOW  WE  ASTONISHED  THE  RIVERMOUTHIANS.  205 

nant,  and  declared  that  no  penalty  was  severe  enough 
for  those  concerned  in  such  a  prank ;  others  —  and 
these  were  the  very  people  who  had  been  terrified 
nearly  out  of  their  wits  —  had  the  assurance  to  laugh, 
saying  that  they  knew  all  along  it  was  only  a  trick. 

The  town-watch  boldly  took  possession  of  the 
ground,  and  the  crowd  began  to  disperse.  Knots  of 
gossips  lingered  here  and  there  near  the  place,  in- 
dulging in  vain  surmises  as  to  who  the  invisible  gun- 
ners conld  be. 

There  was  no  more  noise  that  night,  but  many  a 
timid  person  lay  awake  expecting  a  renewal  of  the 
mysterious  cannonading.  The  Oldest  Inhabitant  re- 
fused to  go  to  bed  on  any  terms,  but  persisted  in  sit- 
ting up  in  a  rocking-chair,  with  his  hat  and  mittens 
on,  until  daybreak. 

I  thought  I  should  never  get  to  sleep.  The  mo- 
ment I  drifted  off  in  a  doze  I  fell  to  laughing  and 
woke  myself  up.  But  towards  morning  slumber 
overtook  me,  and  I  had  a  series  of  disagreeable 
dreams,  in  one  of  which  I  was  waited  upon  by  the 
ghost  of  Silas  Trefethen  with  an  exorbitant  bill  for 
the  use  of  his  guns.  In  another,  I  was  dragged  be- 
fore a  court-martial  and  sentenced  by  Sailor  Ben,  in 
a  frizzled  wig  and  three-cornered  cocked  hat,  to  be 
shot  to  death  by  Bailey's  Battery,  —  a  sentence  which 
Sailor  Ben  was  about  to  execute  with  his  own  hand, 
when  I  suddenly  opened  my  eyes  and  found  the  sun- 
shine lying  pleasantly  across  my  face.  I  tell  you  I 
was  glad ! 


1 


206  THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 

That  unaccountable  fascination  which  leads  the 
guilty  to  hover  about  the  spot  where  his  crime  was 
committed  drew  me  down  to  the  wharf  as  soon  as  I 
was  dressed.  Phil  Adams,  Jack  Harris,  and  others 
of  the  conspirators  were  already  there,  examining 
with  a  mingled  feeling  of  curiosity  and  apprehension 
the  havoc  accomplished  by  the  battery. 


THE  OLD  SOGERS. 


The  fence  was  badly  shattered  and  the  ground 
ploughed  up  for  several  yards  round  the  place  where 


HOW  WE  ASTONISHED  THE  RIVERMOUTHIANS.  207 

the  guns  formerly  lay,  —  formerly  lay,  for  now  tliey 
were  scattered  every  which  way.  There  was  scarcely 
a  gun  that  had  n't  burst.  Here  was  one  ripped  open 
from  muzzle  to  breech,  and  there  was  another  with 
its  mouth  blown  into  the  shape  of  a  trumpet.  Three 
of  the  guns  had  disappeared  bodily,  but  on  looking 
over  the  edge  of  the  wharf  we  saw  them  standing  on 
end  in  the  tide-mud.  They  had  popped  overboard  in 
their  excitement. 

"  I  tell  you  what,  fellows,"  whispered  Phil  Adams, 
"it  is  lucky  we  did  n't  try  to  touch  'em  off  with 
punk.    They 'd  have  blown  us  all  to  flinders." 

The  destruction  of  Bailey's  Battery  was  not,  un- 
fortunately, the  only  catastrophe.  A  fragment  of 
one  of  the  cannon  had  carried  away  the  chimney  of 
Sailor  Ben's  cabin.  He  was  very  mad  at  first,  but 
having  prepared  the  fuse  himseK  he  did  n't  dare  com- 
plain openly. 

"  I 'd  have  taken  a  reef  in  the  blessed  stove-pipe," 
said  the  Admiral,  gazing  ruefully  at  the  smashed 
chimney,  "  if  I  had  known  as  how  the  Flagship  was 
agoin'  to  be  under  fire." 

The  next  day  he  rigged  out  an  iron  funnel,  which, 
being  in  sections,  could  be  detached  and  taken  in  at  a 
moment's  notice.  On  the  whole,  I  think  he  was  re- 
signed to  the  demolition  of  his  brick  chimney.  The 
stove-pipe  was  a  great  deal  more  ship-shape. 

The  tovm  was  not  so  easily  appeased.  The  select- 
men determined  to  make  an  example  of  the  guilty 
parties,  and  offered  a  reward  for  their  arrest,  holding 


208 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


out  a  promise  of  pardon  to  any  one  of  the  offenders 
who  would  furnish  information  against  the  rest.  But 
there  were  no  faint  hearts  among  the  Centipedes. 
Suspicion  rested  for  a  while  on  several  persons,  —  on 
the  soldiers  at  the  fort;  on  a  crazy  fellow,  known 
about  town  as  "  Bottle-Nose  "  ;  and  at  last  on  Sailor 
Ben. 

"  Shiver  my  timbers  ! "  cries  that  deeply  injured 
individual.  "  Do  you  suppose,  sir,  as  I  have  lived 
to  sixty  year,  an'  ain't  got  no  more  sense  than  to  go 
for  to  blaze  away  at  my  own  upper  riggin'  ?  It  does  n't 
stand  to  reason." 

It  certainly  did  not  seem  probable  that  Mr.  Watson 
would  maliciously  knock  over  his  own  chimney,  and 
La^vyer  Hackett,  who  had  the  case  in  hand,  bowed 
himself  out  of  the  Admiral's  cabin  convinced  that 
the  right  man  had  not  been  discovered. 

People  living  by  the  sea  are  always  more  or  less 
superstitious.  Stories  of  spectre  ships  and  mysteri- 
ous beacons,  that  lure  vessels  out  of  their  course  and 
wreck  them  on  unknown  reefs,  were  among  the  stock 
legends  of  Eivermouth ;  and  not  a  few  people  in  the 
town  were  ready  to  attribute  the  firing  of  those  guns 
to  some  supernatural  agency.  The  Oldest  Inhabitant 
remembered  that  when  he  was  a  boy  a  dim-looking 
sort  of  schooner  hove  to  in  the  ofifi.ng  one  foggy  after- 
noon, fired  off  a  single  gun  that  did  n't  make  any 
report,  and  then  crumbled  to  nothing,  spar,  mast,  and 
hulk,  like  a  piece  of  burnt  paper. 

The  authorities,  however,  were  of  the  opinion  that 


HOW  WE  ASTONISHED  THE  RIVERMOUTHIANS.  209 

human  hands  had  something  to  do  with  the  explosions, 
and  they  resorted  to  deep-laid  stratagems  to  get  hold 
of  the  said  hands.  One  of  their  traps  came  very  near 
catching  us.  They  artfully  caused  an  old  brass  field- 
piece  to  be  left  on  a  wharf  near  the  scene  of  our  late 
operations.  Nothing  in  the  world  but  the  lack  of 
money  to  buy  powder  saved  us  from  falling  into  the 
clutches  of  the  two  watchmen  who  lay  secreted  for  a 
week  in  a  neighboring  sail-loft. 

It  was  many  a  day  before  the  midnight  bombard- 
ment ceased  to  be  the  town-talk.  The  trick  was  so 
audacious  and  on  so  grand  a  scale  that  nobody  thought 
for  an  instant  of  connecting  us  lads  with  it.  Suspi- 
cion at  length  grew  weary  of  lighting  on  the  wrong 
person,  and  as  conjecture  —  like  the  physicians  in 
the  epitaph  —  was  in  vain,  the  Eivermouthians  gave 
up  the  idea  of  finding  out  who  had  astonished  them. 

They  never  did  find  out,  and  never  will,  unless 
they  read  this  veracious  history.  If  the  selectmen 
are  still  disposed  to  punish  the  malefactors,  I  can 
supply  Lawyer  Hackett  with  evidence  enough  to  con- 
vict Pepper  Whitcomb,  Phil  Adams,  Charley  Harden, 
and  the  other  honorable  members  of  the  Centipede 
Club.    But  reaUy  I  don't  think  it  would  pay  now. 


210  THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


CHAPTER  XVIII.' 

A  FROG  HE  WOULD  A-WOOING  GO. 

F  the  reader  supposes  that 
I  lived  all  this  while  in 
Rivermouth  without  falling 
a  victim  to  one  or  more  of 
the  young  ladies  attending 
Miss  Dorothy  Gibbs's  Fe- 
male  Institute,  why,  then, 
all  I  have  to  say  is  the  read- 
er exhibits  his  ignorance 
of  human  nature. 

Miss  Gibbs's  seminary 
was  located  within  a  few 
minutes'  walk  of  the  Temph 
Grammar  School,  and  num- 
bered about  thirty-five  pu- 
pils, the  majority  of  whom 
boarded  at  the  Hall, — ' 
Primrose  Hall,  as  Miss  Dor- 
othy prettily  called  it.  The 
Primrosos,  as  we  called  them,  ranged  from  seven  years 
of  age  to  sweet  seventeen,  and  a  prettier  group  of  si- 
rens never  got  together  even  in  Rivermouth,  for  River- 
mouth,  you  should  know,  is  famous  for  its  pretty  girls. 


A  FROG  HE  WOULD  A-WOOING  GO. 


211 


There  were  tall  girls  and  short  girls,  rosy  girls  and 
pale  girls,  and  girls  as  brown  as  berries  ;  girls  like  Am- 
azons, slender  girls,  weird  and  winning  like  Undine, 
girls  with  black  tresses,  girls  with  auburn  ringlets,  girls 
with  every  tinge  of  golden  hair.  To  behold  Miss  Dor- 
othy's young  ladies  of  a  Sunday  morning  walking  to 
church  two  by  two,  the  smallest  toddling  at  the  end 
of  the  procession,  like  the  bobs  at  the  tail  of  a  kite, 
was  a  spectacle  to  fill  with  tender  emotion  the  least 
susceptible  heart.  To  see  Miss  Dorothy  marching 
grimly  at  the  head  of  her  light  infantry,  was  to  feel 
the  hopelessness  of  making  an  attack  on  any  part  of 
the  column. 

She  was  a  perfect  dragon  of  watchfulness.  The 
most  unguarded  lifting  of  an  eyelash  in  the  fluttering 
battalion  was  sufficient  to  put  her  on  the  lookout. 
She  had  had  experiences  with  the  male  sex,  this  Miss 
Dorothy  so  prim  and  grim.  It  was  whispered  that  her 
heart  was  a  tattered  album  scrawled  over  with  love- 
lines,  but  that  she  had  shut  up  the  volume  long  ago. 

There  was  a  tradition  that  she  had  been  crossed  in 
love;  but  it  was  the  faintest  of  traditions.  A  gay 
young  lieutenant  of  marines  had  flirted  with  her  at  a 
country  ball  (a.  d.  1811),  and  then  marched  carelessly 
away  at  the  head  of  his  company  to  the  shrill  music 
of  the  fife,  without  so  much  as  a  sigh  for  the  girl  he 
left  behind  him.  The  years  rolled  on,  the  gallant 
gay  Lothario  —  which  was  n't  his  name  —  married, 
became  a  father,  and  then  a  grandfather ;  and  at  the 
period  of  which  I  am  speaking  his  grandchild  was 


212 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


actually  one  of  Miss  Dorothy's  young  ladies.  So,  at 
least,  ran  the  story. 

The  lieutenant  himself  was  dead  these  many  years.; 
but  Miss  Dorothy  never  got  over  his  duplicity.  She 
was  convinced  that  the  sole  aim  of  mankind  was  to 
win  the  unguarded  affection  of  maidens,  and  then 
march  off  treacherously  with  flying  colors  to  the 
heartless  music  of  the  drum  and  fife.  To  shield  the 
inmates  of  Primrose  Hall  from  the  bitter  influences 
that  had  blighted  her  own  early  affections  was  Miss 
Dorothy's  mission  in  life. 

"  No  wolves  prowling  about  my  lambs,  if  you 
please,"  said  Miss  Dorothy.    "  I  will  not  allow  it." 

She  was  as  good  as  her  word.  I  don't  think  the 
boy  lives  who  ever  set  foot  within  the  limits  of  Prim- 
rose Hall  while  the  seminary  was  under  her  charge. 
Perhaps  if  Miss  Dorothy  had  given  her  young  ladies 
a  little  more  liberty,  they  would  not  have  thought  it 
"  such  fun  "  to  make  eyes  over  the  white  lattice  fence 
at  the  young  gentlemen  of  the  Temple  Grammar 
School.  I  say  perhaps  ;  for  it  is  one  thing  to  manage 
thirty-five  young  ladies  and  quite  another  thing  to 
talk  about  it. 

But  all  Miss  Dorothy's  vigilance  could  i¥)t  prevent 
the  young  folks  from  meeting  in  the  town  now  and 
then,  nor  could  her  utmost  ingenuity  interrupt  postal 
arrangements.  There  was  no  end  of  notes  passing 
between  the  students  and  the  Primroses.  Notes  tied 
to  the  heads  of  arrows  were  shot  into  dormitory  win- 
dows ;  notes  were  tucked  under  fences,  and  hiddeu 


A  FROG  HE  WOULD  A- WOOING  GO.  213 


in  the  trunks  of  decayed  trees.  Every  thick  place 
in  the  boxwood  hedge  that  surrounded  the  seminary 
was  a  possible  post-office. 

It  was  a  terrible  shock  to  Miss  Dorothy  the  day 
ehe  unearthed  a  nest  of  letters  in  one  of  the  huge 
wooden  urns  surmounting  the  gateway  that  led  to  her 
dovecot.  It  was  a  bitter  moment  to  Miss  Phoebe  and 
Miss  Candace  and  Miss  Hesba,  when  they  had  their 
locks  of  hair  grimly  handed  back  to  them  by  Miss 
Gibbs  in  the  presence  of  the  whole  school.  Girls 
whose  locks  of  hair  had  run  the  blockade  in  safety 
were  particularly  severe  on  the  offenders.  But  it 
did  n't  stop  other  notes  and  other  tresses,  and  I  would 
like  to  know  what  can  stop  them  while  the  earth 
holds  together. 

'Now  when  I  first  came  to  Eivermouth  I  looked 
upon  girls  as  rather  tame  company ;  I  had  n't  a  spark 
of  sentiment  concerning  them ;  but  seeing  my  com- 
rades sending  and  receiving  mysterious  epistles,  wear- 
ing bits  of  ribbon  in  their  button-holes  and  leaving 
packages  of  confectionery  (generally  lemon-drops)  in 
the  hollow  trunks  of  trees,  —  why,  I  felt  that  this 
was  the  proper  thing  to  do.  I  resolved,  as  a  matter 
of  duty,  to  fall  in  love  with  somebody,  and  I  did  n't 
care  in  the  least  who  it  was.  In  much  the  same 
mood  that  Don  Quixote  selected  the  Dulcinea  del 
Toboso  for  his  lady-love,  I  singled  out  one  of  Miss 
Dorothy's  incomparable  young  ladies  for  mine. 

I  debated  a  long  while  whether  I  should  not  select 
two,  but  at  last  settled  down  on  one,  —  a  pale  little 


214 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


girl  with  blue  eyes,  named  Alice.  I  shall  not  make 
a  long  story  of  this,  for  Alice  made  short  work  of  me. 
She  was  secretly  in  love  with  Pepper  Whitcomb. 
This  occasioned  a  temporary  coolness  between  Pepper 
and  myself. 

Not  disheartened,  however,  I  placed  Laura  Eice  — 
I  believe  it  was  Laura  Eice  —  in  the  vacant  niche- 
The  new  idol  was  more  cruel  than  the  old.  The 
former  frankly  sent  me  to  the  right  about,  but  the 
latter  was  a  deceitful  lot.  She  wore  my  nosegay  in 
her  dress  at  the  evening  service  (the  Primroses  were 
marched  to  church  three  times  every  Sunday),  she 
penned  me  the  daintiest  of  notes,  she  sent  me  the 
glossiest  of  ringlets  (cut,  as  I  afterwards  found  out, 
from  the  stupid  head  of  Miss  Gibbs's  chamber-maid), 
and  at  the  same  time  was  holding  me  and  my  pony 
up  to  ridicule  in  a  series  of  letters  written  to  Jack 
Harris.  It  was  Harris  himself  who  kindly  opened 
my  eyes. 

"  I  tell  you  what.  Bailey,"  said  that  young  gentle- 
man, "  Laura  is  an  old  veteran,  and  carries  too  many 
guns  for  a  youngster.  She  can't  resist  a  flirtation  ;  I 
believe  she 'd  flirt  with  an  infant  in  arms.  There 's 
hardly  a  fellow  in  the  school  that  has  n't  worn  her 
colors  and  some  of  her  hair.  She  does  n't  give  out 
any  more  of  her  own  hair  now.  It  's  been  pretty 
well  used  up.  The  demand  was  greater  than  the 
supply,  you  see.  It 's  all  very  well  to  correspond 
with  Laura,  but  as  to  looking  for  anything  serious 
from  her,  the  knowing  ones  don't.    Hope  I  have  n't 


A  FKOG  HE  WOULD  A- WOOING  GO.  215 

hurt  your  feelings,  old  boy,"  (that  was  a  soothing 
stroke  of  flattery  to  call  me  "  old  boy,"  )  "  but 't  was 
my  duty  as  a  friend  and  a  Centipede  to  let  you  know 
who  you  were  dealing  with." 

Such  was  the  advice  given  me  by  that  time-stricken, 
care-worn,  and  embittered  man  of  the  world,  who  was 
sixteen  years  old  if  he  was  a  day. 

I  dropped  Laura.  In  the  course  of  the  next  twelve 
months  I  had  perhaps  three  or  four  similar  experi- 
ences, and  the  conclusion  was  forced  upon  me  that  I 
was  not  a  boy  likely  to  distinguish  myself  in  this 
branch  of  business. 

I  fought  shy  of  Primrose  Hall  from  that  moment. 
Smiles  were  smiled  over  the  boxwood  hedge,  and  little 
hands  were  occasionally  kissed  to  me ;  but  I  only 
winked  my  eye  patronizingly,  and  passed  on.  I 
never  renewed  tender  relations  with  Miss  Gibbs's 
young  ladies.  All  this  occurred  during  my  first  year 
and  a  half  at  Eivermouth. 

Between  my  studies  at  school,  my  out-door  recrea- 
tions, and  the  hurts  my  vanity  received,  I  managed 
to  escape  for  the  time  being  any  very  serious  attack 
of  that  love  fever  which,  like  the  measles,  is  almost 
certain  to  seize  upon  a  boy  sooner  or  later.  I  was 
not  to  be  an  exception.  I  was  merely  biding  my 
time.  The  incidents  I  have  now  to  relate  took  place 
shortly  after  the  events  described  in  the  last  chapter. 

In  a  life  so  tranquil  and  circumscribed  as  ours  in 
the  Nutter  House,  a  visitor  was  a  novelty  of  no  little 


216 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


importance.  The  whole  household  awoke  from  its 
quietude  one  morning  when  the  Captain  announced 
that  a  young  niece  of  his  from  New  York  was  to 
spend  a  few  weeks  with  us. 

The  blue-chintz  room,  into  which  a  ray  of  sun  was 
never  allowed  to  penetrate,  was  thrown  open  and 
dusted,  and  its  mouldy  air  made  sweet  with  a 
bouquet  of  pot-roses  placed  on  the  old-fashioned 
bureau.  Eatty  was  busy  all  the  forenoon  washing 
off  the  sidewalk  and  sand-papering  the  great  brass 
knocker  on  our  front-door  ;  and  Miss  Abigail  was  up 
to  her  elbows  in  a  pigeon-pie. 

I  felt  sure  it  was  for  no  ordinary  person  that  aU 
these  preparations  were  in  progress  ;  and  I  was  right. 
Miss  Nelly  Glentworth  was  no  ordinary  person.  I 
shall  never  believe  she  was.  There  may  have  been 
lovelier  women,  though  I  have  never  seen  them  ;  there 
may  have  been  more  brilliant  women,  though  it  has 
not  been  my  fortune  to  meet  them ;  but  that  there 
was  ever  a  more  charming  one  than  Nelly  Glent- 
worth is  a  proposition  against  which  I  contend. 

I  don't  love  her  now.  I  don't  think  of  her  once 
in  five  years ;  and  yet  it  would  give  me  a  turn  if  in 
the  course  of  my  daily  walk  I  should  suddenly  come 
upon  her  eldest  boy.  I  may  say  that  her  eldest  boy 
was  not  playing  a  prominent  part  in  this  life  when  I 
first  made  her  acquaintance. 

It  was  a  drizzling,  cheerless  afternoon  towards  the 
end  of  summer  that  a  hack  drew  up  at  the  door  of 
the  Nutter  House.    The  Captain  and  Miss  Abigail 


A  FROG  HE  WOULD  A-WOOING  GO. 


217 


hastened  into  the  hall  on  hearing  the  carriage  stop. 
In  a  moment  more  Miss  Nelly  Glentworth  was  seated 
in  our  sitting-room  undergoing  a  critical  examination 
at  the  hands  of  a  small  boy  who  lounged  uncomfort- 
ably on  a  settee  between  the  windows. 

The  small  boy  considered  himself  a  judge  of  girls, 
and  he  rapidly  came  to  the  following  conclusions :  That 
Miss  Nelly  was  about  nineteen;  that  she  had  not 
given  away  much  of  her  back  hair,  which  hung  in 
two  massive  chestnut  braids  over  her  shoulders ;  that 
she  was  a  shade  too  pale  and  a  trifle  too  tall ;  that  her 
hands  were  nicely  shaped  and  her  feet  much  too  di- 
minutive for  daily  use.  He  furthermore  observed  that 
her  voice  was  musical,  and  that  her  face  lighted  up 
with  an  indescribable  brightness  when  she  smiled. 

On  the  whole,  the  small  boy  liked  her  well 
enough ;  and,  satisfied  that  she  was  not  a  person  to 
be  afraid  of,  but,  on  the  contrary,  one  who  might  be 
made  quite  agreeable,  he  departed  to  keep  an  appoint- 
ment with  his  friend  Sir  Pepper  Whitcomb. 

But  the  next  morning  when  Miss  Glentworth  came 
down  to  breakfast  in  a  purple  dress,  her  face  as  fresh 
as  one  of  the  moss-roses  on  the  bureau  up  stairs,  and 
her  laugh  as  contagious  as  the  merriment  of  a  robin, 
the  small  boy  experienced  a  strange  sensation,  and 
mentally  compared  her  with  the  loveliest  of  Miss 
Gibbs's  young  ladies,  and  found  those  young  ladies 
wanting  in  the  balance. 

A  night's  rest  had  wrought  a  wonderful  change  in 
Tvliss  Nelly.    The  pallor  and  weariness  of  the  journey 


218  THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 

had  passed  away.  I  looked  at  her  through  the  toast- 
rack  and  thought  I  had  never  seen  anything  more 
winning  than  her  smile. 

After  breakfast  she  went  out  with  me  to  the  stable 
to  see  Gypsy,  and  the  three  of  us  became  friends 
then  and  there.  Nelly  was  the  only  girl  that  Gypsy 
ever  took  the  slightest  notice  of. 

It  chanced  to  be  a  half-holiday,  and  a  base-ball 
match  of  unusual  interest  was  to  come  off  on  the 
school  ground  that  afternoon;  but,  somehow,  I  did 
n't  go.  I  hung  about  the  house  abstractedly.  The 
Captain  went  up  town,  and  Miss  Abigail  was  busy  in 
the  kitchen  making  immortal  gingerbread.  I  drifted 
into  the  sitting-room,  and  had  our  guest  aU  to  my- 
self for  I  don't  know  how  many  hours.  It  was  twi- 
light, I  recollect,  when  the  Captain  returned  with 
letters  for  Miss  Nelly. 

Many  a  time  after  that  I  sat  with  her  through  the 
dreamy  September  afternoons.  If  I  had  played  base- 
ball it  would  have  been  much  better  for  me. 

Those  first  days  of  Miss  Nelly's  visit  are  very 
misty  in  my  remembrance.  I  try  in  vain  to  re- 
member just  when  I  began  to  fall  in  love  with  her. 
Whether  the  speU  worked  upon  me  gradually  or  fell 
upon  me  all  at  once,  I  don't  know.  I  only  know 
that  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  I  had  always  loved  her. 
Things  that  took  place  before  she  came  were  dim  to 
me,  like  events  that  had  occurred  in  the  Middle  Ages. 

NeUy  was  at  least  five  years  my  senior.  But  what 
of  that  ?    Adam  is  the  only  man  I  ever  heard  of 


A  FROG  HE  WOULD  A-WOOING  GO. 


219 


who  did  n't  in  early  youth  fall  in  love  with  a  woman 
older  than  himself,  and  I  am  convinced  that  he  would 
have  done  so  if  he  had  had  the  opportunity. 

I  wonder  if  girls  from  fifteen  to  twenty  are  aw^are 
of  the  glamour  they  cast  over  the  straggling,  awk- 
w^ard  boys  whom  they  regard  and  treat  as  mere  chil- 
dren ?  I  wonder,  now.  Young  women  are  so  keen  in 
such  matters.  I  wonder  if  Miss  Nelly  Glentworth 
never  suspected  until  the  very  last  night  of  her  visit 
at  Eivermouth  that  I  was  over  ears  in  love  with  her 
pretty  self,  and  was  suffering  pangs  as  poignant  as  if 
I  had  been  ten  feet  high  and  as  old  as  Methuselah  ? 
For,  indeed,  I  was  miserable  throughout  all  those  five 
weeks.  I  ^vent  down  in  the  Latin  class  at  the  rate 
of  three  boys  a  day.  Her  fresh  young  eyes  came 
between  me  and  my  book,  and  there  was  an  end  of 
Virgil. 

"  O  love,  love,  love ! 

Love  is  like  a  dizziness, 
It  winna  let  a  body- 
Gang  aboot  his  business." 

I  was  wretched  away  from  her,  and  only  less 
■^Tetched  in  her  presence.  The  especial  cause  of  my 
woe  was  this  :  I  was  simply  a  little  boy  to  Miss  Glent- 
worth.  I  knew  it.  I  bewailed  it.  I  ground  my  teetli 
and  wept  in  secret  over  the  fact.  If  I  had  been  aught 
else  in  her  eyes  would  she  have  smoothed  my  hair  so 
carelessly,  sending  an  electric  shock  through  my 
whole  system  ?  would  she  have  walked  with  me, 
hand  in  hand,  for  hours  in  the  old  garden  ?  and  once 
when  I  lay  on  the  sofa,  my  head  aching  with  love 


220 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


and  mortification,  would  she  have  stooped  down  and 
kissed  me  if  I  had  n't  been  a  little  boy  ?  How  I  de- 
spised little  boys  !  How  I  hated  one  particular  little 
boy,  —  too  little  to  be  loved  ! 

I  smile  over  this  very  grimly  even  now.  My  sor- 
row was  genuine  and  bitter.  It  is  a  great  mistake  on 
the  part  of  elderly  ladies,  male  and  female,  to  tell  a 
child  that  he  is  seeing  his  happiest  days.  Don't  you 
believe  a  word  of  it,  my  little  friend.  The  burdens 
of  childhood  are  as  hard  to  bear  as  the  crosses  that 
weigh  us  down  later  in  life,  while  the  happinesses 
of  childhood  are  tame  compared  with  those  of  our 
maturer  years.  And  even  if  this  were  not  so,  it  is 
rank  cruelty  to  throw  shadows  over  the  young  heart 
by  croaking,  "  Be  merry,  for  to-morrow  you  die  ! " 

As  the  last  days  of  Nelly's  visit  drew  near,  I  fell 
into  a  very  unhealthy  state  of  mind.  To  have  her 
so  frank  and  unconsciously  coquettish  with  me  was 
a  daily  torment ;  to  be  looked  upon  and  treated  as  a 
child  was  bitter  almonds  ;  but  the  thought  of  losing 
her  altogether  was  distraction. 

The  summer  was  at  an  end.  The  days  were  per- 
ceptibly shorter,  and  now  and  then  came  an  evening 
when  it  was  chilly  enough  to  have  a  wood-fire  in  our 
sitting-room.  The  leaves  were  beginning  to  take 
hectic  tints,  and  the  wind  was  practising  the  minor 
pathetic  notes  of  its  autumnal  dirge.  Nature  and 
myself  appeared  to  be  approaching  our  dissolution 
simultaneously. 

One  evening,  the  evening  previous  to  the  day  set 


A  FROG  HE  WOULD  A-WOOING  GO. 


221 


for  Nelly's  departure,  —  how  well  I  remember  it !  — 
I  found  her  sitting  alone  by  the  wide  chimney-piece 
looking  musingly  at  the  crackling  back-log.  There 
were  no  candles  in  the  room.  On  her  face  and  hands, 
and  on  the  small  golden  cross  at  her  throat,  fell  the 
flickering  firelight,  —  that  ruddy,  mellow  firelight  in 
which  one's  grandmother  would  look  poetical. 

I  drew  a  low  stool  from  the  corner  and  placed  it 
by  the  side  of  her  chair.  She  reached  out  her  hand 
to  me,  as  was  her  pretty  fashion,  and  so  we  sat  for 
several  moments  silently  in  the  changing  glow  of  the 
burning  logs.  At  length  I  moved  back  the  stool  so 
that  I  could  see  her  face  in  profile  without  being 
seen  by  her.  I  lost  her  hand  by  this  movement,  but 
1  could  n't  have  spoken  with  the  listless  touch  of 
her  fingers  on  mine.  After  two  or  three  attempts  I 
said  "  JSTelly  "  a  good  deal  louder  than  I  intended. 

Perhaps  the  effort  it  cost  me  was  evident  in  my 
voice.  She  raised  herself  quickly  in  the  chair  and 
half  turned  towards  me. 

"Well,  Tom?" 

"I  —  I  am  very  sorry  you  are  going  away." 
"  So  am  I.   I  have  enjoyed  every  hour  of  my  visit." 
"  Do  you  think  you  will  ever  come  back  here  ? " 
"  Perhaps,"  said  iSTelly,  and  her  eyes  wandered  off 
into  the  fitful  firelight. 

"I  suppose  you  will  forget  us  all  very  quick- 

"Indeed  I  shall  not.  I  shall  always  have  the 
pleasantest  memories  of  Eivermouth." 


222 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


Here  the  conversation  died  a  natural  death.  Nelly 
sank  into  a  sort  of  dream,  and  I  meditated.  Fearing 
every  moment  to  be  interrupted  by  some  member  of 
the  family,  I  nerved  myself  to  make  a  bold  dash. 

"Nelly." 

"  WeU  " 

"Do  you  —  "   I  hesitated. 

"  Do  I  what  ? " 

"  Love  any  one  very  much  ?  " 

"Wliy,  of  course  I  do,"  said  Nelly,  scattering  her 
re  very  with  a  merry  laugh.  "  I  love  Uncle  Nutter, 
and  Aunt  Nutter,  and  you,  —  and  Towser." 

Towser,  our  new  dog  !  I  could  n't  stand  that.  I 
pushed  back  the  stool  impatiently  and  stood  in  front 
of  her. 

"  That 's  not  what  I  mean,"  I  said  angrily. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Do  you  love  any  one  to  marry  him  ?  " 

"  The  idea  of  it,"  cried  Nelly,  laughing. 

"  But  you  must  tell  me." 

"  Must,  Tom  ? " 

"  Indeed  you  must,  Nelly." 

She  had  risen  from  the  chair  with  an  amused,  per- 
plexed look  in  her  eyes.  I  held  her  an  instant  by 
the  dress. 

"  Please  tell  me." 

"  0  you  silly  boy  ! "  cried  Nelly.  Then  she  rum- 
pled my  hair  all  over  my  forehead  and  ran  laughing 
out  of  the  room. 

Suppose  Cinderella  had  rumpled  the  prince's  hair 


A  FROG  HE  WOULD  A-WOOING  GO.  223 

all  over  his  forehead,  how  would  he  have  liked  it  ? 
Suppose  the  Sleeping  Beauty,  when  the  king's  son 
with  a  kiss  set  her  and  all  the  old  clocks  agoing  in 
the  spell-bound  castle,  —  suppose  the  young  minx 
had  looked  up  and  coolly  laughed  in  his  eye,  I  guess 
the  king's  son  would  n't  have  been  greatly  pleased. 

I  hesitated  a  second  or  two  and  then  rushed  after 
Nelly  just  in  time  to  run  against  Miss  Abigail,  who 
entered  the  room  with  a  couple  of  lighted  candles. 

"  Goodness  gracious,  Tom  ! "  exclaimed  Miss  Abi- 
gail, "  are  you  possessed  ? " 

I  left  her  scraping  the  warm  spermaceti  from  one 
of  her  thumbs. 

Xelly  was  in  the  kitchen  talking  quite  unconcern- 
edly with  Kitty  Collins.  There  she  remained  until 
supper-time.  Supper  over,  we  all  adjourned  to  the 
sitting-room.  I  planned  and  plotted,  but  could  man- 
age in  no  way  to  get  Nelly  alone.  She  and  the  Cap- 
tain played  cribbage  all  the  evening. 

The  next  morning  my  lady  did  not  make  her  ap- 
pearance until  we  were  seated  at  the  breakfast-table. 
I  had  got  up  at  daylight  myself  Immediately  after 
breakfast  the  carriage  arrived  to  take  her  to  the  rail- 
way station.  A  gentleman  stepped  from  this  carriage, 
and  greatly  to  my  surprise  was  warmly  welcomed  by 
the  Captain  and  Miss  Abigail,  and  by  Miss  Nelly 
herseK,  who  seemed  unnecessarily  glad  to  see  him. 
From  the  hasty  conversation  that  followed  I  learned 
that  the  gentleman  had  come  somewhat  unexpectedly 
to  conduct  Miss  Nelly  to  Boston.    But  how  did  he 


224 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


know  that  she  was  to  leave  that  morning  ?  Nelly 
bade  farewell  to  the  Captain  and  Miss  Abigail,  made 
a*  little  rush  and  kissed  me  on  the  nose,  and  was 
gone. 

As  the  wheels  of  the  hack  rolled  up  the  street 
and  over  my  finer  feelings,  I  turned  to  the  Captain. 

"  Who  was  that  gentleman,  sir  ?  " 

"  That  was  Mr.  Waldron." 

"  A  relation  of  yours,  sir  ? "  I  asked  craftily. 

"  No  relation  of  mine,  — ^  a  relation  of  Nelly's,"  said 
the  Captain,  smiling. 

"A  cousin,"  I  suggested,  feeling  a  strange  hatred 
spring  up  in  my  bosom  for  the  unknown. 

"  Well,  I  suppose  you  might  call  him  a  cousin  for 
the  present.  He 's  going  to  marry  little  Nelly  next 
summer." 

In  one  of  Peter  Parley's  valuable  historical  works 
is  a  description  of  an  earthquake  at  Lisbon.  "  At  the 
first  shock  the  inhabitants  rushed  into  the  streets; 
the  earth  yawned  at  their  feet  and  the  houses  tot- 
tered and  fell  on  every  side."  I  staggered  past  the 
Captain  into  the  street ;  a  giddiness  came  over  me ; 
the  earth  yawned  at  my  feet,  and  the  houses  threat- 
ened to  fall  in  on  every  side  of  me.  How  distinctly 
I  remember  that  momentary  sense  of  confusion  when 
everything  in  the  world  seemed  toppling  over  into 
ruins. 

As  I  have  remarked,  my  love  for  Nelly  is  a  thing 
of  the  past.  I  had  not  thought  of  her  for  years  until 
I  sat  down  to  write  this  chapter,  and  yet,  now  that 


A  FROG  HE  WOULD  A-WOOING  GO. 


225 


all  is  said  and  done,  I  should  n't  care  particularly  to 
come  across  Mrs.  Waldron's  eldest  boy  in  my  after- 
noon's walk.  He  must  be  fourteen  or  fifteen  years 
old  by  this  time, —  the  young  villaia  J 


226 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


CHAPTEE  XIX. 


I  BECOME  A  BLIGHTED  BEING. 


HEN  a  young  boy  gets  to 
be  an  old  boy,  when  the 
hair  is  growing  rather  thin 
on  the  top  of  the  old  boy's 
head,  and  he  has  been 
tamed  sufficiently  to  take 
a  sort  of  chastened  pleas- 
ure in  allowing  the  baby  to 
play  with  his  watch-seals, 
—  when,  I  say,  an  old  boy 
has  reached  tliis  stage  in 
the  journey  of  life,  he  is 
sometimes  apt  to  indulge 
in  sportive  remarks  con- 
cerning his  first  love. 

Now,  though  I  bless  my 
stars  that  it  was  n't  in  my 
power  to  marry  Miss  Nelly, 
I  am  not  going  to  deny  ni}^ 
boyish  regard  for  her  nor  laugh  at  it.  As  long  as  it 
lasted  it  was  a  very  sincere  and  unselfish  love,  and 
rendered  me  proportionately  wretched.  I  say  as  long 
as  it  lasted,  for  one's  first  love  does  n't  last  forever. 


I  BECOME  A  BLIGHTED  BEING. 


227 


I  am  ready,  however,  to  laugh  at  the  amusing  fig- 
ure I  cut  after  I  had  really  ceased  to  have  any  deep 
feeling  in  the  matter.  It  was  then  I  took  it  into  my 
head  to  be  a  Blighted  Being.  This  was  about  two 
weeks  after  the  spectral  appearance  of  Mr.  Wal- 
dron. 

For  a  boy  of  a  naturally  vivacious  disposition  the 
part  of  a  blighted  being  presented  difi&culties.  I  had 
an  excellent  appetite,  I  liked  society,  I  liked  out-of- 
door  sports,  I  was  fond  of  handsome  clothes.  Now 
all  these  things  were  incompatible  with  the  doleful 
character  I  was  to  assume,  and  I  proceeded  to  cast 
them  from  me.  I  neglected  my  hair.  I  avoided  my 
playmates.  I  frowned  abstractedly.  I  did  n't  eat  as 
much  as  was  good  for  me.  I  took  lonely  walks.  I 
brooded  in  solitude.  I  not  only  committed  to  mem- 
ory the  more  turgid  poems  of  the  late  Lord  Byron,  — 
"  Fare  thee  well,  and  if  forever,"  &c.,  —  but  I  became 
a  despondent  poet  on  my  own  account,  and  composed 
a  string  of  "Stanzas  to  One  who  will  understand 
them."  I  think  I  was  a  trifle  too  hopeful  on  that 
point;  for  I  came  across  the  verses  several  years 
afterwards,  and  was  quite  unable  to  understand  them 
myself. 

It  was  a  great  comfort  to  be  so  perfectly  miserable 
and  yet  not  suffer  any.  I  used  to  look  in  the  glass 
and  gloat  over  the  amount  and  variety  of  mournful 
expression  I  could  throw  into  my  features.  If  I 
caught  myself  smiling  at  anything,  I  cut  the  smile 
short  with  a  sigh.    The  oddest  thing  about  all  this  is, 


228 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


I  never  once  suspected  that  I  was  not  unhappy.  No 
one,  not  even  Pepper  Whitcomb,  was  more  deceived 
than  I. 

Among  the  minor  pleasures  of  being  blighted  were 
the  interest  and  perplexity  I  excited  in  the  simple 
souls  that  were  thrown  in  daily  contact  with  me. 
Pepper  especially.  I  nearly  drove  him  into  a  corre- 
sponding state  of  mind. 

I  had  from  time  to  time  given  -Pepper  slight  but 
impressive  hints  of  my  admiration  for  Some  One 
(this  was  in  the  early  part  of  Miss  Glentworth's  visit) ; 
I  had  also  led  him  to  infer  that  my  admiration  was 
not  altogether  in  vain.  He  was  therefore  unable  to 
explain  the  cause  of  my  strange  behavior,  for  I  had 
carefully  refrained  from  mentioning  to  Pepper  the  fact 
that  Some  One  had  turned  out  to  be  Another's. 

I  treated  Pepper  shabbily.  I  could  n't  resist  play- 
ing on  his  tenderer  feelings.  He  was  a  boy  bubbling 
over  with  sympathy  for  any  one  in  any  kind  of  trou- 
ble. Our  intimacy  since  Binny  Wallace's  death  had 
been  uninterrupted ;  but  now  I  moved  in  a  sphere 
apart,  not  to  be  profaned  by  the  step  of  an  outsider. 

I  no  longer  joined  the  boys  on  the  play-ground  at 
recess.  I  stayed  at  my  desk  reading  some  lugubrious 
volume,  —  usually  The  Mysteries  of  Udolpho,  by  the 
amiable  Mrs.  Eadcliffe.  A  translation  of  The  Sor- 
rows of  Werter  fell  into  my  hands  at  this  period, 
and  if  I  could  have  committed  suicide  without  kill- 
ing myself,  I  should  certainly  have  done  so. 

On  half-holidays,  instead  of  fraternizing  with  Pep- 


I  BECOME  A  BLIGHTED  BEING. 


229 


per  and  the  rest  of  our  clique,  I  would  wander  off 
alone  to  Grave  Point. 

Grave  Point  —  the  place  where  Binny  Wallace's 
body  came  ashore  —  was  a  narrow  strip  of  land  run- 
ning out  into  the  river.  A  line  of  Lombardy  poplars, 
stiff  and  severe,  like  a  row  of  grenadiers,  mounted 
guard  on  the  water-side.  On  the  extreme  end  of  the 
peninsula  was  an  old  disused  graveyard,  tenanted 
principally  by  the  early  settlers  who  had  been  scalped 
by  the  Indians.  In  a  remote  comer  of  the  cemetery, 
set  apart  from  the  other  mounds,  was  the  grave  of  a 
woman  who  had  been  hanged  in  the  old  colonial 
times  for  the  murder  of  her  infant.  Goodwife  PoUy 
Haines  had  denied  the  crime  to  the  last,  and  after  her 
death  there  had  arisen  strong  doubts  as  to  her  actual 
guilt.  It  was  a  belief  current  among  the  lads  of  the 
town,  that  if  you  went  to  this  grave  at  nightfall  on 
the  10th  of  November,  —  the  anniversary  of  her 
execution, —  and  asked,  "  For  what  did  the  magis- 
trates hang  you  ? "  a  voice  would  reply,  "  Nothing." 

Many  a  Eivermouth  boy  has  tremblingly  put  this 
question  in  the  dark,  and,  sure  enough,  Polly  Haines 
invariably  answered  nothing ! 

A  low  red-brick  wall,  broken  down  in  many  places 
and  frosted  over  with  silvery  moss,  surrounded  this 
burial-ground  of  our  Pilgrim  Fathers  and  their  imme- 
diate descendants.  The  latest  date  on  any  of  the 
headstones  was  1780.  A  crop  of  very  funny  epi- 
taphs sprung  up  here  and  there  among  the  overgrown 
thistles  and  burdocks,  and  almost  every  tablet  had  a 


230 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


death's-head  with  cross-bones  engraved  upon  it,  oi 
else  a  puffy  round  face  with  a  pair  of  wings  stretch- 
ing out  from  the  ears,  like  this  i  ^ 


These  mortuary  emblems  furnished  me  with  con- 
genial food  for  reflection.  I  used  to  lie  in  the  long 
grass,  and  speculate  on  the  advantages  and  disadvan- 
tages of  being  a  cherub. 

I  forget  what  I  thought  the  advantages  were,  but  I 
remember  distinctly  of  getting  into  an  inextricable 
tangle  on  two  points  :  How  could  a  cherub,  being  all 
head  and  wings,  manage  to  sit  down  when  he  was 
tired  ?  To  have  to  sit  down  on  the  back  of  his  head 
struck  me  as  an  awkward  alternative.  Again : 
Where  did  a  cherub  carry  those  indispensable  articles 
(such  as  jack-knives,  marbles,  and  pieces  of  twine) 
which  boys  in  an  earthly  state  of  existence  usually 
stow  away  in  their  trousers-pockets  ? 

These  were  knotty  questions,  and  I  was  never  able 
to  dispose  of  them  satisfactorily. 

Meanwhile  Pepper  Wliitcomb  would  scour  the 
whole  town  in  search  of  me.  He  finally  discovered 
my  retreat,  and  dropped  in  on  me  abruptly  one 
afternoon,  while  I  was  deep  in  the  cherub  problem. 

"  Look  here,  Tom  Bailey !  "  said  Pepper,  shying  a 
piece  of  clam-shell  indignantly  at  the  Hie  jacet  on  a 
neighboring  gravestone,  "you  are  just  going  to  the 


I  BECOME  A  BLIGHTED  BEING.  231 


dogs  !  Can't  you  tell  a  fellow  what  in  thunder  ails 
you,  instead  of  prowling  round  among  the  tombs  like 
a  jolly  old  vampire  ?  " 

"  Pepper,"  I  replied,  solemnly,  "  don't  ask  me.  All 
is  not  well  here,"  —  touching  my  breast  mysterious- 
ly. If  I  had  touched  my  head  instead,  I  should  have 
been  nearer  the  mark. 


PEPPER  WHITCOMB  REMONSTRATES. 


Pepper  stared  at  me. 

«  Earthly  happiness,"  I  continued,  "  is  a  delusion 


232 


THE  STOKY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


and  a  snare.  You  will  never  be  happy,  Pepper,  until 
you  are  a  cherub." 

Pepper,  by  the  by,  would  have  made  an  excellent 
cherub,  he  was  so  chubby.  Having  delivered  my- 
self of  these  gloomy  remarks,  I  arose  languidly  from 
the  gTass  and  moved  away,  leaving  Pepper  staring 
after  me  in  mute  astonishment.  I  was  Hamlet  and 
Werter  and  the  late  Lord  Byron  all  in  one. 

You  will  ask  what  my  purpose  was  in  cultivating 
this  factitious  despondency.  None  whatever.  Blighted 
beings  never  have  any  purpose  in  life  excepting  to  be 
as  blighted  as  possible. 

Of  course  my  present  line  of  business  could  not 
long  escape  the  eye  of  Captain  Nutter.  I  don't  know 
if  the  Captain  suspected  my  attachment  for  Miss 
Glentworth.  He  never  alluded  to  it ;  but  he  watched 
me.  Miss  Abigail  watched  me,  Kitty  Collins  watched 
me,  and  Sailor  Ben  watched  me. 

"  I  can't  make  out  his  signals,"  I  overheard  the 
Admiral  remark  to  my  grandfather  one  day.  "  I  hope 
he  ain't  got  no  kind  of  sickness  aboard." 

There  was  something  singularly  agreeable  in  being 
an  object  of  so  great  interest.  Sometimes  I  had  all 
I  could  do  to  preserve  my  dejected  aspect,  it  was  so 
pleasant  to  be  miserable.  I  incline  to  the  opinion 
that  people  who  are  melancholy  without  any  partic- 
ular reason,  such  as  poets,  artists,  and  young  musi- 
cians with  long  hair,  have  rather  an  enviable  time  of 
it.  In  a  quiet  way  I  never  enjoyed  myself  better  in 
my  life  than  when  I  was  a  Blighted  Being. 


IN  WHICH  I  PROVE  MYSELF,  ETC.  233 


CHAPTEE  XX. 

IN  WHICH  I  PROVE  MYSELF  TO  BE  THE  GRANDSON  OF 
MY  GRANDFATHER. 

T  was  not  possible  for  a  boy 
of  my  temperament  to  be 
a  blighted  being  longer 
than  three  consecutive 
weeks. 

I  was  gradually  emerg- 
ing from  my  self-imposed 
cloud  when  events  took 
place  that  greatly  assisted 
in  restoring  me  to  a  more 
natural  frame  of  mind.  I 
awoke  from  an  imaginary- 
trouble  to  face  a  real  one. 

I  suppose  you  don't 
know  what  a  financial 
crisis  is  ?  I  will  give  you 
an  illustration. 

You  are  deeply  in  debt 
—  say  to  the  amount  of  a 
quarter  of  a  dollar  —  to  the  little  knicknack  shop 
round  the  corner,  where  they  sell  picture-papers, 
apruce-gum,  needles,  and  Malaga  raisins.     A  boy 


234 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


owes  you  a  quarter  of  a  dollar,  which  he  promises  to 
pay  at  a  certain  time.  You  are  depending  on  this 
quarter  to  settle  accounts  with  the  small  shop-keeper. 
The  time  arrives,  —  and  the  quarter  does  n't.  That 's 
a  financial  crisis,  in  one  sense,  —  in  twenty-five  senses, 
if  I  may  say  so. 

When  this  same  thing  happens,  on  a  grander  scale, 
in  the  mercantile  world,  it  produces  what  is  called  a 
panic.  One  man's  inability  to  pay  his  debts  ruins 
another  man,  who,  in  turn,  ruins  some  one  else,  and 
so  on,  until  failure  after  failure  makes  even  the  rich- 
est capitalists  tremble.  Public  confidence  is  sus- 
pended, and  the  smaller  fry  of  merchants  are  knocked 
over  like  tenpins. 

These  commercial  panics  occur  periodically,  after 
the  fashion  of  comets  and  earthquakes  and  other  dis- 
agreeable things.  Such  a  panic  took  place  in  New 
Orleans  in  the  year  18 — ,  and  my  father's  banking- 
house  went  to  pieces  in  the  crash. 

Of  a  comparatively  large  fortune  nothing  remained 
after  paying  his  debts  excepting  a  few  thousand  dol- 
lars, with  which  he  proposed  to  return  North  and 
embark  in  some  less  hazardous  enterprise.  In  the 
mean  time  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  stay  in  New 
Orleans  to  wind  up  the  business. 

My  grandfather  was  in  some  way  involved  in  this 
failure,  and  lost,  I  fancy,  a  considerable  sum  of  money  ; 
but  he  never  talked  much  on  the  subject.  He  was 
an  unflinching  believer  in  the  spilt-milk  proverb. 

"  It  can't  be  gathered  up,"  he  would  say,  "  and  it 's 


IN  WHICH  I  PROVE  MYSELF,  ETC.  235 


no  use  crying  over  it.  Pitch  into  the  cow  and  get 
some  more  milk,  is  my  motto." 

The  suspension  of  the  banking-house  was  bad 
enough,  but  there  was  an  attending  circumstance 
that  gave  us,  at  Eivermouth,  a  great  deal  more  anx- 
iety. The  cholera,  which  some  one  predicted  would 
visit  the  country  that  year,  and  which,  indeed,  had 
made  its  appearance  in  a  mild  form  at  several  points 
along  the  Mississippi  Eiver,  had  broken  out  with 
much  violence  at  New  Orleans. 

The  report  that  first  reached  us  through  the  news- 
papers was  meagre  and  contradictory;  many  people 
discredited  it ;  but  a  letter  from  my  mother  left  us 
no  room  for  doubt.  The  sickness  was  in  the  city. 
The  hospitals  were  filling  up,  and  hundreds  of  the 
citizens  were  flying  from  the  stricken  place  by  every 
steamboat.  The  unsettled  state  of  my  father's  affairs 
made  it  imperative  for  him  to  remain  at  his  post ;  his 
desertion  at  that  moment  would  have  been  at  the 
sacrifice  of  all  he  had  saved  from  the  general  wreck. 

As  he  would  be  detained  in  New  Orleans  at  least 
three  months,  my  mother  dec"'«'ined  to  come  North 
without  him. 

After  this  we  awaited  with  feverish  impatience  the 
weekly  news  that  came  to  us  from  the  South.  The 
next  letter  advised  us  that  my  parents  were  well,  and 
that  the  sickness,  so  far,  had  not  penetrated  to  the 
faubourg,  or  district,  where  they  lived.  The  follow- 
ing week  brought  less  'cheering  tidings.  My  father's 
business,  in  consequence  of  the  flight  of  the  other 


236 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


partners,  would  keep  him  in  the  city  beyond  the 
period  he  had  mentioned.  The  family  had  moved  to 
Pass  Christian,  a  favorite  watering-place  on  Lake 
Pontchartrain,  near  New  Orleans,  where  he  was  able 
to  spend  part  of  each  week.  So  the  return  North 
was  postponed  indefinitely. 

It  was  now  that  tlie  old  longing  to  see  my  parents 
came  back  to  me  with  irresistible  force.  I  knew  my 
grandfather  would  not  listen  to  the  idea  of  my  going 
to  New  Orleans  at  such  a  dangerous  time,  since  he 
had  opposed  the  journey  so  strongly  when  the  same 
objection  did  not  exist.  But  I  determined  to  go 
nevertheless. 

I  think  I  have  mentioned  the  fact  that  all  the  male 
members  of  our  famil}^^  on  my  father's  side,  —  as  far 
back  as  the  Middle  Ages,  —  have  exhibited  in  early 
youth  a  decided  talent  for  running  away.  It  was  an 
hereditary  talent.  It  ran  in  the  blood  to  run  away. 
I  do  not  pretend  to  explain  the  peculiarity.  I  simply 
admit  it. 

It  was  not  my  fate  to  change  the  prescribed  order 
of  things.  I,  too,  was  to  run  away,  thereby  proving, 
if  any  proof  were  needed,  that  I  was  the  grandson 
of  my  grandfather.  I  do  not  hold  myself  responsi- 
ble for  the  step  any  more  than  I  do  for  the  shape  of 
my  nose,  which  is  said  to  be  a  fac-simile  of  Captain 
Nutter's. 

I  have  frequently  noticed  how  circumstances  con- 
spire to  help  a  man,  or  a  boy,  when  he  has  thoroughly 
resolved  on  doing  a  thing.    That  very  week  the  Biv- 


IN  WHICH  I  PROVE  MYSELF,  ETC. 


237 


ermouth  Barnacle  printed  an  advertisement  that 
seemed  to  have  been  written  on  purpose  for  me.  It 
read  as  follows  :  — 

WANTED.  —  A  Few  Able-bodied  Seamen  and  a  Cabin-Boy,  for  the  ship  Raw 
hngs,  now  loading  for  New  Orleans  at  Johnson's  Wharf,  Boston.  Apply  in  per- 
son, within  four  days,  at  the  ofi&ce  of  Messrs.  —  &  Co.,  or  on  board  th« 

Ship. 

How  I  was  to  get  to  New  Orleans  with  only  $4.62 
was  a  question  that  had  been  bothering  me.  This 
advertisement  made  it  as  clear  as  day.  I  would  go 
as  cabin-boy. 

I  had  taken  Pepper  into  my  confidence  again  ;  I  had 
told  him  the  story  of  my  love  for  Miss  Glentworth, 
with  aU  its  harrowing  details ;  and  now  conceived  it 
judicious  to  confide  in  him  the  change  about  to  take 
place  in  my  life,  so  that,  if  the  Eawlings  went  down 
in  a  gale,  my  friends  might  have  the  limited  satisfac- 
tion of  knowing  what  had  become  of  me. 

Pepper  shook  his  head  discouragingly,  and  sought 
in  every  way  to  dissuade  me  from  the  step.  He  drew 
a  disenchanting  picture  of  the  existence  of  a  cabin- 
boy,  whose  constant  duty  (according  to  Pepper)  was 
to  have  dishes  broken  over  his  head  whenever  the 
captain  or  the  mate  chanced  to  be  out  of  humor, 
which  was  mostly  all  the  time.  But  nothing  Pepper 
said  could  turn  me  a  hair's-breadth  from  my  purpose. 

I  had  little  time  to  spare,  for  the  advertisement 
stated  explicitly  that  applications  were  to  be  made 
in  person  within  four  days.  I  trembled  to  think  of 
the  bare  possibility  of  some  other  boy  snapping  up 
that  desirable  situation. 


238 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


It  was  on  Monday  that  I  stumbled  upon  the  adver- 
tisement. On  Tuesday  my  preparations  were  com- 
pleted. My  baggage  —  consisting  of  four  shirts,  half 
a  dozen  collars,  a  piece  of  shoemaker's  wax,  (Heaven 
knows  what  for!)  and  seven  stockings,  wrapped  in  a 
silk  handkerchief — lay  hidden  under  a  loose  plank 
of  the  stable  floor.    This  was  my  point  of  departure- 

My  plan  was  to  take  the  last  train  for  Boston,  in 
order  to  prevent  the  possibility  of  immediate  pursuit, 
if  any  should  be  attempted.    The  train  left  at  4  p.  M. 

I  ate  no  breakfast  and  little  dinner  that  day.  I 
avoided  the  Captain's  eye,  and  would  n't  have  looked 
Miss  Abigail  or  Kitty  in  the  face  for  the  wealth  of 
the  Indies. 

When  it  was  time  to  start  for  the  station  I  retired 
quietly  to  the  stable  and  uncovered  my  bundle.  I 
lingered  a  moment  to  kiss  the  white  star  on  Gypsy's 
forehead,  and  was  nearly  unmanned  when  the  little 
animal  returned  the  caress  by  lapping  my  cheek. 
Twice  I  went  back  and  patted  her. 

On  reaching  the  station  I  purchased  my  ticket 
with  a  bravado  air  that  ought  to  have  aroused  the 
suspicion  of  the  ticket-master,  and  hurried  to  the 
car,  where  I  sat  fidgeting  until  the  train  shot  out  into 
the  broad  daylight. 

Then  I  drew  a  long  breath  and  looked  about  me. 
The  first  object  that  saluted  my  sight  was  Sailor  Ben, 
four  or  five  seats  behind  me,  reading  the  Eivermouth 
Barnacle ! 

Beading  was  not  an  easy  art  to  Sailor  Ben;  he 


IN  WHICH  I  PEOVE  MYSELF,  ETC. 


239 


grappled  with  the  sense  of  a  paragraph  as  if  it  were 
a  polar-bear,  and  generally  got  the  worst  of  it.  On 
the  present  occasion  he  was  having  a  hard  struggle, 
judging  by  the  way'he  worked  his  mouth  and  rolled 
his  eyes.  He  had  evidently  not  seen  me.  But  what 
was  he  doing  on  the  Boston  train  ? 

Without  lingering  to  solve  the  question,  I  stole 
gently  from  my  seat  and  passed  into  the  forward  car. 

This  was  very  awkward,  having  the  Admiral  on 
board.  I  could  n't  understand  it  at  all.  Could  it  be 
possible  that  the  old  boy  had  got  tired  of  land  and  was 
running  away  to  sea  himself  ?  That  was  too  absurd. 
I  glanced  nervously  towards  the  car  door  now  and 
then,  half  expecting  to  see  him  come  after  me. 

We  had  passed  one  or  two  way-stations,  and  I  had 
quieted  down  a  good  deal,  when  I  began  to  feel  as  if 
somebody  was  looking  steadily  at  the  back  of  my 
head.  I  turned  round  involuntarily,  and  there  was 
Sailor  Ben  again,  at  the  farther  end  of  the  car,  wres- 
tling with  the  Kivermouth  Barnacle  as  before. 

I  began  to  grow  very  uncomfortable  indeed.  Was 
it  by  design  or  chance  that  he  thus  dogged  my  steps  ? 
If  he  was  aware  of  my  presence,  why  did  n't  he  speak 
to  me  at  once  ?  Why  did  he  steal  round,  making  no 
sign,  like  a  particularly  unpleasant  phantom  ?  Maybe 
it  was  n't  Sailor  Ben.  I  peeped  at  him  slyly.  There 
was  no  mistaking  that  tanned,  genial  phiz  of  his. 
Very  odd  he  did  n't  see  me  ! 

Literature,  even  in  the  mild  form  of  a  country 
newspaper,  always  had  the  effect  of  poppies  on  the 


240 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


Admiral.  When  I  stole  another  glance  in  his  direc- 
tion his  hat  was  tilted  over  his  right  eye  in  the  most 
dissolute  style,  and  the  Eivermouth  Barnacle  lay  in  a 
confused  heap  beside  him.  He  had  succumbed.  He 
was  fast  asleep.  If  he  would  only  keep  asleep  until 
we  reached  our  destination ! 

By  and  by  I  discovered  that  the  rear  car  had  been 
detached  from  the  train  at  the  last  stopping-place. 
This  accounted  satisfactorily  for  Sailor  Ben's  singular 
movements,  and  considerably  calmed  my  fears.  Nev- 
ertheless, I  did  not  like  the  aspect  of  things. 

The  Admiral  continued  to  snooze  like  a  good  fel- 
low, and  was  snoring  melodiously  as  we  glided  at  a 
slackened  pace  over  a  bridge  and  into  Boston. 

I  grasped  my  pilgrim's  bundle,  and,  hurrying  out 
of  the  car,  dashed  up  the  first  street  that  presented 
itself. 

It  was  a  narrow,  noisy,  zigzag  street,  crowded  with 
trucks  and  obstructed  with  bales  an,d  boxes  of  mer- 
chandise. I  did  n't  pause  to  breathe  until  I  had 
placed  a  respectable  distance  between  me  and  the 
railway  station.  By  this  time  it  was  nearly  twi- 
light. 

I  had  got  into  the  region  of  dwelling-houses,  and 
was  about  to  seat  myself  on  a  doorstep  to  rest,  when, 
lo  !  there  was  the  Admiral  trundling  along  on  the 
opposite  sidewalk,  under  a  full  spread  of  canvas,  as 
he  would  have  expressed  it. 

I  was  off  again  in  an  instant  at  a  rapid  pace ;  but 
in  spite  of  aU  I  could  do  he  held  his  own  without 


IN  WHICH  I  PROVE  MYSELF,  ETC. 


24i 


SINGULAR  CONDUCT  OF   SAILOR  BEN. 


any  perceptible  exertion.    He  had  a  very  ngly  gait 

to  get  away  from,  the  Admiral.    I  did  n't  dare  to 

run,  for  fear  of  being  mistaken  for  a  thief,  a  suspicion 

which  my  bundle  would  naturally  lend  color  to. 

T  pushed  ahead,  however,  at  a  brisk  trot,  and  must 

have  got  over  one  or  two  miles,  —  my  pursuer  neither 

gaining  nor  losing  ground,  —  when  I  concluded  to 

surrender  at  discretion.    I  saw  that  Sailor  Ben  was 

determined  to  have  me,  and,  knomng  my  man,  I  knew 

that  escape  was  highly  improbable. 

11  1. 


242 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


So  I  turned  round  and  waited  for  him  to  catch  up 
with  me,  which  he  did  in  a  few  seconds,  looking  rather 
sheepish  at  first. 

"  Sailor  Ben,"  said  I,  severely, do  I  understand 
that  you  are  dogging  my  steps  ? " 

"  Well,  little  messmate,"  replied  the  Admiral,  rub- 
bing his  nose,  which  he  always  did  when  he  was  dis- 
concerted, "  I  am  kind  o'  followin'  in  your  wake." 

"  Under  orders  ? " 

"  Under  orders." 

"  Under  the  Captain's  orders  ?  " 

"  Sure-ly." 

"  In  other  words,  my  grandfather  has  sent  you  to 
fetch  me  back  to  Eivermouth  ? " 

"  That 's  about  it,"  said  the  Admiral,  with  a  burst 
of  frankness. 

"  And  I  must  go  with  you  whether  I  want  to  or 
not  ? " 

"  The  Capen's  very  identical  words  ! " 

There  was  nothing  to  be  done.  I  bit  my  lips  with 
suppressed  anger,  and  signified  that  I  was  at  his  dis- 
posal, since  I  could  n't  help  it.  The  impression  was 
very  strong  in  my  mind  that  the  Admiral  would  n't 
hesitate  to  put  me  in  irons  if  I  showed  signs  of 
mutiny. 

It  was  too  late  to  return  to  Eivermouth  that  night, 
—  a  fact  which  I  communicated  to  the  old  boy  sul- 
lenly, inquiring  at  the  same  time  what  he  proposed  to 
do  about  it. 

He  said  we  would  cruise  about  for  some  rations,  and 


IN  WHICH  I  PROYE  MYSELF,  ETC.  243 

then  make  a  night  of  it.  I  did  n't  condescend  to 
reply,  though  I  hailed  the  suggestion  of  something 
to  eat  with  inward  enthusiasm,  for  I  had  not  taken 
enough  food  that  day  to  keep  life  in  a  canary. 

We  wandered  back  to  the  railway  station,  in  the 
waiting-room  of  which  was  a  kind  of  restaurant  pre- 
sided over  by  a  severe -looking  young  lady.  Here  we 
had  a  cup  of  coffee  apiece,  several  tough  doughnuts, 
and  some  blocks  of  venerable  sponge-cake.  The 
young  lady  who  attended  on  us,  whatever  her  age 
was  then,  must  have  been  a  mere  child  when  that 
sponge-cake  was  made. 

The  Admiral's  acquaintance  with  Boston  hotels 
was  slight;  but  he  knew  of  a  quiet  lodging-house 
near  by,  much  patronized  by  sea-captains,  and  kept 
by  a  former  friend  of  his. 

In  this  house,  which  had  seen  its  best  days,  we 
were  accommodated  with  a  mouldy  chamber  contain- 
ing two  cot-beds,  two  chairs,  and  a  cracked  pitcher  on 
a  washstand.  The  mantel-shelf  was  ornamented  with 
three  big  pink  conch-shells,  resembling  pieces  of  pet- 
rified liver ;  and  over  these  hung  a  cheap  lurid  print, 
in  which  a  United  States  sloop-of-war  was  giving  a 
British  frigate  particular  fits.  It  is  very  strange  how 
our  o^v^l  ships  never  seem  to  suffer  any  in  these  terri- 
ble engagements.    It  shows  what  a  nation  we  are. 

An  oil-lamp  on  a  deal-table  cast  a  dismal  glare 
over  the  apartment,  which  was  cheerless  in  the  ex- 
treme. I  thought  of  our  sitting-room  at  home,  with 
its  flowery  waU-paper  and  gay  curtains  and  soft 


244 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


lounges ;  I  saw  Major  Elkanah  Nutter  (my  grand- 
father's father)  in  powdered  wig  and  Federal  uniform, 
looking  down  benevolently  from  his  gilt  frame  be- 
tween the  bookcases  ;  I  pictured  the  Captain  and 
Miss  Abigail  sitting  at  the  cosey  round  table  in  the 
moon-like  glow  of  the  astral  lamp ;  and  then  I  fell 
to  wondering  how  they  would  receive  me  when  I 
came  back.  I  wondered  if  the  Prodigal  Son  had  any 
idea  that  his  father  was  going  to  kill  the  fatted  calf  ^ 
for  him,  and  how  he  felt  about  it,  on  the  whole. 

Though  I  was  very  low  in  spirits,  I  put  on  a  bold 
front  to  Sailor  Ben,  you  will  understand.  To  be 
caught  and  caged  in  this  manner  was  a  frightful 
shock  to  my  vanity.  He  tried  to  draw  me  into  con- 
versation ;  but  I  answered  in  icy  monosyllables.  He 
again  suggested  we  should  make  a  night  of  it,  and 
hinted  broadly  that  he  was  game  for  any  amount  of 
riotous  dissipation,  even  to  the  extent  of  going  to  see 
a  play  if  I  wanted  to.  I  declined  haughtily.  I  was 
dying  to  go. 

He  then  threw  out  a  feeler  on  the  subject  of  dom- 
inos  and  checkers,  and  observed  in  a  general  way  that 
"  seven  up  "  was  a  capital  game  ;  but  I  repulsed  him 
at  every  point. 

I  saw  that  the  Admiral  was  beginning  to  feel  hurt 
by  my  systematic  coldness.  We  had  always  been 
such  hearty  friends  until  now.  It  was  too  bad  of  me 
to  fret  that  tender,  honest  old  heart  even  for  an  hour. 
I  really  did  love  the  ancient  boy,  and  when,  in  a 
disconsolate  way,  he  ordered  up  a  pitcher  of  beer,  I 


IN  WHICH  I  PROVE  MYSELF,  ETC.  245 

unbent  so  far  as  to  partake  of  some  in  a  teacup.  He 
recovered  his  spirits  instantly,  and  took  out  his  cuddy- 
clay  pipe  for  a  smoke. 

Between  the  beer  and  the  soothing  fragrance  of  the 
navy-plug,  I  fell  into  a  pleasanter  mood  myself,  and, 
it  being  too  late  now  to  go  to  the  theatre,  I  conde- 
scended to  say,  —  addressing  the  northwest  corner  of 
the  ceiling,  —  that  "  seven  up  "  was  a  capital  game. 
Upon  this  hint  the  Admiral  disappeared,  and  returned 
shortly  with  a  very  dirty  pack  of  cards. 

As  we  played,  with  varying  fortunes,  by  the  flick- 
ering flame  of  the  lamp,  he  sipped  his  beer  and  be- 
came communicative.  He  seemed  immensely  tickled 
by  the  fact  that  I  had  come  to  Boston.  It  leaked  out 
presently  that  he  and  the  Captain  had  had  a  wager  on 
the  subject. 

The  discovery  of  my  plans  and  who  had  discovered 
them  were  points  on  which  the  Admiral  refused  to 
throw  any  light.  They  had  been  discovered,  however, 
and  the  Captain  had  laughed  at  the  idea  of  my  run- 
ning away.  Sailor  Ben,  on  the  contrary,  had  stoutly 
contended  that  I  meant  to  slip  cable  and  be  off. 
Whereupon  the  Captain  offered  to  bet  him  a  dollar 
that  I  would  n't  go.  And  it  was  partly  on  account 
of  thi^  wager  that  Sailor  Ben  refrained  from  captur- 
ing me  when  he  might  have  done  so  at  the  start. 

Now,  as  the  fare  to  and  from  Boston,  with  the 
lodging  expenses,  would  cost  him  at  least  five  dollars, 
I  did  n't  5»ee  what  he  gained  by  winning  the  wager. 
The  Admiral  rubbed  his  nose  violently  when  this  view 
of  the  case  presented  itself. 


246 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


I  asked  him  why  he  did  n't  take  me  from  the  train 
at  the  first  stopping-place  and  return  to  Eivermouth 
by  the  down  train  at  4.30.  He  explained :  having 
purchased  a  ticket  for  Boston,  he  considered  liimself 
bound  to  the  owners  (the  stockholders  of  the  road) 
to  fulfil  his  part  of  the  contract !  To  use  his  own 
words,  he  had  "  shipped  for  the  viage." 

This  struck  me  as  being  so  deliciously  funny,  that 
after  I  was  in  bed  and  the  light  was  out,  I  could  n't 
help  laughing  aloud  once  or  twice.  I  suppose  the 
Admiral  must  have  thought  I  was  meditating  another 
escape,  for  he  made  periodical  visits  to  my  bed 
throughout  the  night,  satisfying  himself  by  kneading 
me  all  over  that  I  had  n't  evaporated. 

I  was  all  there  the  next  morning,  when  Sailor  Ben 
half  awakened  me  by  shouting  merrily,  "  All  hands 
on  deck ! "  The  words  rang  in  my  ears  like  a  part  of 
my  own  dream,  for  I  was  at  that  instant  climbing  up 
the  side  of  the  Eawlings  to  offer  myself  as  cabin- 
boy. 

The  Admiral  was  obliged  to  shake  me  roughly  two 
or  three  times  before  he  could  detach  me  from  the 
dream.  I  opened  my  eyes  with  effort,  and  stared 
stupidly  round  the  room.  Bit  by  bit  my  real  situa- 
tion dawned  on  me.  AVhat  a  sickening  sensation 
that  is,  when  one  is  in  trouble,  to  wake  up  feeling 
free  for  a  moment,  and  then  to  find  yesterday's  sorrow 
all  ready  to  go  on  again  ! 

"  Well,  little  messmate,  how  fares  it  ? 

I  was  too  much  depressed  to  reply.    The  thought 


IN  WHICH  I  PROVE  MYSELF,  ETC. 


247 


of  returning  to  Eivermouth  chilled  me.  How  could 
I  face  Captain  Nutter,  to  say  nothing  of  Miss  Abigail 
and  Kitty  ?  How  the  Temple  Grammar  School  boys 
would  look  at  me  !  How  Conway  and  Seth  Rodgers 
would  exult  over  my  mortification  !  And  what  if 
the  Eev.  Wibird  Hawkins  should  allude  to  me  in  his 
next  Sunday's  sermon  ? 

Sailor  Ben  was  wise  in  keeping  an  eye  on  me,  for 
after  these  thoughts  took  possession  of  my  mind, 
T  wanted  only  the  opportunity  to  give  him  the 
slip. 

The  keeper  of  the  lodgings  did  not  supply  meals 
to  his  guests  ;  so  we  breakfasted  at  a  small  chop- 
house  in  a  crooked  street  on  our  way  to  the  cars. 
The  city  was  not  astir  yet,  and  looked  glum  and 
careworn  in  the  damp  morning  atmosphere.  ^ 

Here  and  there  as  we  passed  along  was  a  sharp- 
faced  shop-boy  taking  down  shutters ;  and  now  and 
then  we  met  a  seedy  man  who  had  evidently  spent 
the  night  in  a  doorway.  Such  early  birds  and  a  few 
laborers  with  their  tin  kettles  were  the  only  signs  of 
life  to  be  seen  until  we  came  to  the  station,  where 
I  insisted  on  paying  for  my  own  ticket.  I  did  n't 
relish  being  conveyed  from  place  to  place,  like  a 
felon  changing  prisons,  at  somebody  else's  expense. 

On  entering  the  car  I  sunk  into  a  seat  next  the 
window,  and  Sailor  Ben  deposited  himself  beside  me, 
cutting  off  all  chance  of  escape. 

The  car  filled  up  soon  after  this,  and  I  wondered 
if  there  was  anything  in  my  mien  that  would  lead 


248 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


the  other  passengers  to  suspect  I  was  a  boy  who  had 
run  away  and  was  being  brought  back. 

A  man  in  front  of  us  —  he  was  near-sighted,  as  I 
discovered  later  by  his  reading  a  guide-book  with  his 
nose  —  brought  the  blood  to  my  cheeks  by  turning 
round  and  peering  at  me  steadily.  I  rubbed  a  clear 
spot  on  the  cloudy  window-glass  at  my  elbow,  and 
looked  out  to  avoid  him. 

There,  in  the  travellers'  room,  was  the  severe-look- 
ing young  lady  piling  up  her  blocks  of  sponge-cake 
in  alluring  pjrramids  and  industriously  intrenching 
herself  behind  a  breastwork  of  squash-pie.  I  saw 
with  cynical  pleasure  numerous  victims  walk  up  to 
the  counter  and  recklessly  sow  the  seeds  of  death  in 
their  constitutions  by  eating  her  doughnuts.  I  had 
got  quite  interested  in  her,  when  the  whistle  sounded 
and  the  train  began  to  move. 

The  Admiral  and  I  did  not  talk  much  on  the  jour- 
ney. I  stared  out  of  the  window  most  of  the  time, 
speculating  as  to  the  probable  nature  of  the  reception 
in  store  for  me  at  the  terminus  of  the  road. 

What  would  tlie  Captain  say  ?  and  Mr.  Grimshaw, 
what  would  he  do  about  it  ?  Then  I  thought  of  Pep- 
per Whitcomb.  Dire  was  the  vengeance  I  meant  to 
wreak  on  Pepper,  for  who  but  he  had  betrayed  me  ? 
Pepper  alone  had  been  the  repository  of  my  secret, 
—  perfidious  Pepper! 

As  we  left  station  after  station  behind  us,  I  felt 
less  and  less  like  encountering  the  members  of  our 
family.  Sailor  Ben  fathomed  what  was  passing  in 
my  mind,  for  he  leaned  over  and  said  :  — 


IN  WHICH  1  PROVE  MYSELF,  ETC.  249 

"  I  don't  think  as  the  Capen  will  bear  down  very 
hard  on  you." 

But  it  was  n't  that.  It  was  n't  the  fear  of  any 
physical  punishment  that  might  be  inflicted ;  it  was 
a  sense  of  my  own  folly  that  was  creeping  over  me ; 
for  during  the  long,  silent  ride  I  had  examined  my 
conduct  from  every  stand-point,  and  there  was  no 
view  I  could  take  of  myseK  in  which  I  did  not  look 
like  a  very  foolish  person  indeed. 

As  we  came  within  sight  of  the  spires  of  Eiver- 
m(?uth,  I  would  n't  have  cared  if  the  up  train,  which 
met  us  outside  the  town,  had  run  into  us  and  ended 
me. 

Contrary  to  my  expectation  and  dread,  the  Captain 
was  not  visible  when  we  stepped  from  the  cars.  Sai- 
lor Ben  glanced  among  the  crowd  of  faces,  apparent- 
ly looking  for  him  too.  Conway  was  there,  —  he  was 
always  hanging  about  the  station,  —  and  if  he  had 
intimated  in  any  way  that  he  knew  of  my  disgrace 
and  enjoyed  it,  I  should  have  walked  into  him,  I  am 
certain. 

But  this  defiant  feeling  entirely  deserted  me  by 
the  time  we  reached  the  Nutter  House.  The  Captain 
himself  opened  the  door. 

"  Come  on  board,  sir,"  said  Sailor  Ben,  scraping  his 
left  foot  and  touching  his  hat  sea-fashion. 

My  grandfather  nodded  to  Sailor  Ben,  somewhat 
coldly  I  thought,  and  much  to  my  astonishment  kind- 
ly took  me  by  the  hand. 

I  was  unprepared  for  this,  and  the  tears,  which  no 
II  * 


250 


THE  STOKY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


amount  of  severity  would  have  wrung  from  me,  wellfcd 
up  to  my  eyes. 

The  expression  of  my  grandfather's  face,  as  I 
glanced  at  it  hastily,  was  grave  and  gentle;  there 
was  nothing  in  it  of  anger  or  reproof  I  followed 
him  into  the  sitting-room,  and,  obeying  a  motion  of 
his  hand,  seated  myself  on  the  sofa.  He  remained 
standing  by  the  round  table  for  a  moment,  lost  in 
thought,  then  leaned  over  and  picked  up  a  letter. 

It  was  a  letter  with  a  great  black  seal 


IN  WHICH  I  LEAVE  RIVERMOUTH.  251 


CHAPTEK  XXI. 

IN  WHICH  I  LEAVE  RIVERMOUTH. 

LETTEE  with  a  great  black 
seal ! 

I  knew  then  what  had 
happened  as  well  as  I  know 
it  now.  But  which  was  it, 
father  or  mother  ?  I  do  not 
like  to  look  back  to  the  ag- 
ony and  suspense  of  that 
moment. 

.  My  father  had  died  at 
Wew  Orleans  during  one 
of  his  weekly  visits  to  the 
city.  The  letter  bearing 
these  tidings  had  reached 
Eivermouth  the  evening  of 
my  flight,  —  had  passed  me 
on  the  road  by  the  down 
train. 

I  must  turn  back  for  a 
moment  to  that  eventful  evening.  When  I  failed  to 
make  my  appearance  at  supper,  the  Captain  began  to 
suspect  that  I  had  really  started  on  my  wild  tour 
southward,  —  a  conjecture  which  Sailor  Ben's  absence 


252 


THE  STOEY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


helped  to  confirm.  I  had  evidently  got  off  by  the 
train  and  Sailor  Ben  had  followed  me. 

There  was  no  telegraphic  communication  between 
Boston  and  Eivermouth  in  those  days ;  so  my  grand- 
father could  do  nothing  but  await  the  result.  Even 
if  there  had  been  another  mail  to  Boston,  he  could 
not  have  availed  himself  of  it,  not  knowing  how  to 
address  a  message  to  the  fugitives.  The  post-of&ce 
was  naturally  the  last  place  either  I  or  the  Admiral 
would  think  of  visiting. 

My  grandfather,  however,  was  too  full  of  trouble 
to  allow  this  to  add  to  his  distress.  He  knew  that 
the  faithful  old  sailor  would  not  let  me  come  to  any 
harm,  and  even  if  I  had  managed  for  the  time  being 
to  elude  him,  was  sure  to  bring  me  back  sooner  or 
later. 

Our  return,  therefore,  by  the  first  train  on  the  fol- 
lowing day  did  not  surprise  him. 

I  was  greatly  puzzled,  as  I  have  said,  by  the  gentle 
manner  of  his  reception ;  but  when  we  were  alone 
together  in  the  sitting-room,  and  he  began  slowly  to 
unfold  the  letter,  I  understood  it  all.  I  caught  a 
sight  of  my  mother's  handwriting  in  the  superscrip- 
tion, and  there  was  nothing  left  to  tell  me. 

My  grandfather  held  the  letter  a  few  seconds  irres- 
olutely, and  then  commenced  reading  it  aloud ;  but 
he  could  get  no  further  than  the  date. 

"  I  can't  read  it,  Tom,"  said  the  old  gentleman, 
breaking  down.    "  I  thought  I  could." 

He  handed  it  to  me.    I  took  the  letter  mechan- 


IN  WHICH  I  LEAVE  RI VERMOUTH.  253 

ically,  and  hurried  away  with  it  to  my  little  room, 
where  I  had  passed  so  many  happy  hours. 

The  week  that  followed  the  receipt  of  this  letter  is 
nearly  a  blank  in  my  memory.  I  remember  that 
the  days  appeared  endless ;  that  at  times  I  could  not 
realize  the  misfortune  that  had  befallen  us,  and  my 
heart  upbraided  me  for  not  feeling  a  deeper  grief; 
that  a  full  sense  of  my  loss  would  now  and  then 
sweep  over  me  like  an  inspiration,  and  I  would  steal 
away  to  my  chamber  or  wander  forlornly  about  the 
gardens.    I  remember  this,  but  little  more. 

As  the  days  went  by  my  first  grief  subsided,  and 
in  its  place  grew  up  a  want  which  I  have  experienced 
at  every  step  in  life  from  boyhood  to  manhood.  Of- 
ten, even  now,  after  all  these  years,  when  I  see  a  lad 
of  twelve  or  fourteen  walking  by  his  father's  side, 
and  glancing  merrily  up  at  his  face,  I  turn  and  look 
after  them,  and  am  conscious  that  I  have  missed  com- 
panionship most  sweet  and  sacred. 

I  shall  not  dwell  on  this  portion  of  my  story. 
There  were  many  tranquil,  pleasant  hours  in  store  for 
me  at  that  period,  and  I  prefer  to  turn  to  them. 

One  evening  the  Captain  came  smiling  into  the 
sitting-room  with  an  open  letter  in  his  hand.  My 
mother  had  arrived  at  New  York,  and  would  be  with 
us  the  next  day.  For  the  first  time  in  weeks  —  years, 
it  seemed  to  me  —  something  of  the  old  cheerfulness 
mingled  with  our  conversation  round  the  evening 
lamp.    I  was  to  go  to  Boston  with  the  Captain  to 


254 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


meet  her  and  bring  her  home.  I  need  not  describe 
that  meeting.  With  my  mother's  hand  in  mine  once 
more,  all  the  long  years  we  had  been  parted  appeared 
like  a  dream.  Very  dear  to  me  was  the  sight  of  that 
slender,  pale  woman  passing  from  room  to  room,  and 
lending  a  patient  grace  and  beauty  to  the  saddened 
life  of  the  old  house. 

Everything  was  changed  with  us  now.  There  were 
consultations  with  lawyers,  and  signing  of  papers, 
and  correspondence ;  for  my  father's  affairs  had  been 
left  in  great  confusion.  And  when  these  were  settled, 
the  evenings  were  not  long  enough  for  us  to  hear  all 
my  mother  had  to  tell  of  the  scenes  she  had  passed 
through  in  the  ill-fated  city. 

Then  there  w^ere  old  times  to  talk  over,  full  of 
reminiscences  of  Aunt  Chloe  and  little  Black  Sam. 
Little  Black  Sam,  by  the  by,  had  been  taken  by  his 
master  from  my  father's  service  ten  months  previously, 
and  put  on  a  sugar-plantation  near  Baton  Eouge. 
'Not  relishing  the  change,  Sam  had  run  away,  and  by 
some  mysterious  agency  got  into  Canada,  from  which 
place  he  had  sent  back  several  indecorous  messages 
to  his  late  owner.  Aunt  Chloe  was  still  in  New  Or- 
leans, employed  as  nurse  in  one  of  the  cholera  hospi- 
tal wards,  and  the  Desmoulins,  near  neighbors  of 
ours,  had  purchased  the  pretty  stone  house  among  the 
orange-trees. 

How  all  these  simple  details  interested  me  will 
be  readily  understood  by  any  boy  who  has  been  long 
absent  from  home. 


IN  WHICH  I  LEAVE  RIVERMOUTH. 


255 


I  was  sorry  when  it  became  necessary  to  discuss 
q^uestions  more  nearly  affecting  myself.  I  had  been 
removed  from  school  temporarily,  but  it  was  decided, 
after  much  consideration,  that  I  should  not  return, 
the  decision  being  left,  in  a  manner,  in  my  own 
hands. 

The  Captain  wished  to  carry  out  his  son's  intention 
and  send  me  to  college,  for  which  I  was  nearly  fitted ; 
but  our  means  did  not  admit  of  this.  The  Captain, 
too,  could  ill  afford  to  bear  the  expense,  for  his  losses 
by  the  failure  of  the  New  Orleans  business  had  been 
heavy.  Yet  he  insisted  on  the  plan,  not  seeing  clear- 
ly what  other  disposal  to  make  of  me. 

In  the  midst  of  our  discussions  a  letter  came  from 
my  Uncle  Snow,  a  merchant  in  New  York,  generously 
offering  me  a  place  in  his  counting-house.  The  case 
resolved  itself  into  this  :  If  I  went  to  college,  I  should 
have  to  be  dependent  on  Captain  Nutter  for  several 
years,  and  at  the  end  of  the  collegiate  course  would 
have  no  settled  profession.  If  I  accepted  my  uncle's 
offer,  I  might  hope  to  work  my  way  to  independence 
without  loss  of  time.  It  was  hard  to  give  up  the 
long-cherished  dream  of  being  a  Harvard  boy ;  but 
I  gave  it  up. 

The  decision  once  made,  it  was  Uncle  Snow's  wish 
that  I  should  enter  his  counting-house  immediately. 
The  cause  of  my  good  uncle's  haste  was  this,  —  he 
was  afraid  that  I  would  turn  out  to  be  a  poet  before 
he  could  make  a  merchant  of  me.  His  fears  were 
based  upon  the  fact  that  I  had  published  in  the  Riv- 


256 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


ermoutli  Barnacle  some  verses  addressed  in  a  familiar 
manner  "To  the  Moon."  Now,  the  idea  of  a  boy, 
with  his  living  to  get,  placing  himself  in  communi- 
cation with  the  Moon,  struck  the  mercantile  mind  as 
monstrous.  It  was  not  only  a  bad  investment,  it  wafi 
lunacy. 

We  adopted  Uncle  Snow's  views  so  far  as  to  accede 
to  his  proposition  forthwith.  My  mother,  I  neglected 
to  say,  was  also  to  reside  in  New  York. 

I  shall  not  draw  a  picture  of  Pepper  Whitcomb's 
disgust  when  the  news  was  imparted  to  him,  nor 
attempt  to  paint  Sailor  Ben's  distress  at  the  prospect 
of  losing  his  little  messmate. 

In  the  excitement  of  preparing  for  the  journey  I 
did  n't  feel  any  very  deep  regret  myself.  But  when  the 
moment  came  for  leaving,  and  I  saw  my  small  trunk 
lashed  up  behind  the  carriage,  then  the  pleasantness 
of  the  old  life  and  a  vague  dread  of  the  new  came 
over  me,  and  a  mist  filled  my  eyes,  shutting  out  the 
group  of  schoolfellows,  including  all  the  members  of 
the  Centipede  Club,  who  had  come  down  to  the  house 
to  see  me  off. 

As  the  carriage  swept  round  the  corner,  I  leaned 
out  of  the  window  to  take  a  last  look  at  Sailor  Ben's 
cottage,  and  there  was  the  Admiral's  flag  flying  at 
half-mast. 

So  I  left  Kivermouth,  little  dreaming  that  I  was 
not  to  see  the  old  place  again  for  many  and  many 
a  year. 


EXEUNT  OMNES. 


257 


CHAPTEK  XXII. 

EXEUNT  OMNES. 


ITH  the  close  of  my  school- 
days at  Eivermouth  this 
modest  chronicle  ends. 

The  new  life  upon  which 
I  entered,  the  new  friends 
and  foes  I  encountered  on 
the  road,  and  what  I  did  and 
what  I  did  not,  are  matters 
that  do  not  come  within  the 
scope  of  these  pages.  But 
before  I  write  Finis  to  the 
record  as  it  stands,  before  I 
leave  it,  —  feeling  as  if  I 
were  once  more  going  away 
from  my  boyhood,  —  I  have 
a  word  or  two  to  say  con- 
cerning a  few  of  the  per- 
sonages who  have  figured 
in  tlie  story,  if  you  will 
allow  me  to  call  Gypsy  a  personage. 

I  am  sure  that  the  reader  who  has  followed  me 
thus  far  will  be  willing  to  hear  what  became  of  her, 
and  Sailor  Ben  and  Miss  Abigail  and  the  Captain. 


258 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


First  about  Gypsy.  A  month  after  my  departure 
from  Eivermoutli  the  Captain  informed  me  by  letter 
that  he  had  parted  with  the  little  mare,  according  to 
'  agreement.  She  had  been  sold  to  the  ring-master  of 
a  travelling  circus  (I  had  stipulated  on  this  disposal 
of  her),  and  was  about  to  set  out  on  her  travels.  She 
did  not  disappoint  my  glowing  anticipations,  but  be- 
came quite  a  celebrity  in  her  way,  —  by  dancing  the 
polka  to  slow  music  on  a  pine-board  ball-room  con- 
structed for  the  purpose. 

I  chanced  once,  a  long  while  afterwards,  to  be  in  a 
country  town  where  her  troupe  was  giving  exhibi- 
tions ;  I  even  read  the  gaudily  illumined  show-bill, 
setting  forth  the  accomplishments  of 

^ke  fcLt^-fcLmccL  ^t'a.LLLCLn.  ^Hck-SPani^, 

ZUIiEIKA!! 

FORMERLY   OWNED  BY 
THE  PRINCE  SHAZ-ZAMAN  OF  DAMASCUS, 

—  but  failed  to  recognize  my  dear  little  Mustang  girl 
behind  those  high-sounding  titles,  and  so,  alas !  did 
not  attend  the  performance.  I  hope  all  the  praises 
she  received  and  all  the  spangled  trappings  she  wore 
did  not  spoil  her ;  but  I  am  afraid  they  did,  for  she 
was  always  over  much  given  to  the  vanities  of  this 
world ! 

Miss  Abigail  regulated  the  domestic  destinies  of 
my  grandfather's  household  until  the  day  of  her 


EXEUNT  OMNES. 


259 


death,  which  Dr.  Theophilus  Tredick  solemnly  averred 
was  hastened  by  the  inveterate  habit  she  had  con- 
tracted of  swallowing  unknown  quantities  of  hot- 
drops  whenever  she  fancied  herself  out  of  sorts. 
Eighty-seven  empty  phials  were  found  in  a  bonnet- 
box  on  a  shelf  in  her  bedroom  closet. 

The  old  house  became  very  lonely  when  the  family 
got  reduced  to  Captain  Nutter  and  Eatty ;  and  when 
Kitty  passed  away,  my  grandfather  divided  his  time 
between  Eivermouth  and  New  York. 

Sailor  Ben  did  not  long  survive  his  little  Irish  lass, 
as  he  always  fondly  called  her.  At  his  demise,  which 
took  place  about  six  years  since,  he  left  his  property 
in  trust  to  the  managers  of  a  "  Home  for  Aged  Mar- 
iners." In  his  will,  which  was  a  very  whimsical  doc- 
ument, —  written  by  himself,  and  worded  with  much 
shrewdness,  too,  • —  he  warned  the  Trustees  that  when 
he  got  "  aloft "  he  intended  to  keep  his  "  weather  eye  " 
on  them,  and  should  send  "  a  speritual  shot  across 
their  bows  "  and  bring  them  to,  if  they  did  n't  treat 
the  Aged  Mariners  handsomely. 

He  also  expressed  a  wish  to  have  his  body  stitched 
up  in  a  shotted  hammock  and  dropped  into  the  har- 
bor ;  but  as  he  did  not  strenuously  insist  on  this,  and 
as  it  was  not  in  accordance  with  my  grandfather's 
preconceived  notions  of  Christian  burial,  the  Admiral 
was  laid  to  rest  beside  Kitty,  in  the  Old  South  Bury- 
ing Ground,  with  an  anchor  that  would  have  delighted 
him  neatly  carved  on  his  headstone. 

I  am  sorry  the  fire  has  gone  out  in  the  old  ship's 


260 


THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY. 


stove  in  that  sky-blue  cottage  at  the  head  of  the 
wharf;  1  am  sorry  they  have  taken  down  the  flag-staff 
and  painted  over  the  funny  port-holes  ;  for  I  loved  the 
old  cabin  as  it  was.    They  might  have  let  it  alone  ! 

For  several  months  after  leaving  Eivermouth  I  car- 
ried on  a  voluminous  correspondence  with  Pepper 
Whitcomb ;  but  it  gradually  dwindled  down  to  a  sin- 
gle letter  a  month,  and  then  to  none  at  all.  But 
while  he  remained  at  the  Temple  Grammar  School 
he  kept  me  advised  of  the  current  gossip  of  the  town 
and  the  doings  of  the  Centipedes. 

As  one  by  one  the  boys  left  the  academy,  —  Adams, 
Harris,  Harden,  Blake,  and  Langdon,  —  to  seek  their 
fortunes  elsewhere,  there  was  less  to  interest  me  in 
the  old  seaport ;  and  when  Pepper  himself  went  to 
Philadelphia  to  read  law,  I  had  no  one  to  give  me  an 
inkling  of  what  was  going  on. 

There  was  n't  much  to  go  on,  to  be  sure.  Great 
events  no  longer  considered  it  worth  their  while  to 
honor  so  quiet  a  place.  One  Fourth  of  July  the 
Temple  Grammar  School  burnt  down,  —  set  on  fire,  it 
was  supposed,  by  an  eccentric  squib  that  was  seen  to 
bolt  into  an  upper  window,  —  and  Mr.  Grimshaw  re- 
tired from  public  life,  married,  "  and  lived  happily 
ever  after,"  as  the  story-books  say. 

The  Widow  Conway,  I  am  able  to  state,  did  not 
succeed  in  enslaving  Mr.  Meeks,  the  apothecary,  who 
united  himself  clandestinely  to  one  of  Miss  Dorothy 
Gibbs's  young  ladies,  and  lost  the  patronage  of  Prim- 
rose Hall  in  consequence. 


EXEUNT  OMNES. 


261 


Young  Conway  went  into  the  grocery  business  with 
his  ancient  chum,  Eodgers,  —  Eodgers  &  Conway  !  I 
read  the  sign  only  last  summer  when  I  was  down  in 
Kivermouth,  and  had  half  a  mind  to  pop  into  the 
shop  and  shake  hands  with  him,  and  ask  him  if  he 
wanted  to  fight.  I  contented  myself,  however,  with 
flattening  my  nose  against  his  dingy  shop-window, 
and  beheld  Conway,  in  red  whiskers  and  blue  overalls, 
weighing  out  sugar  for  a  customer,  —  giving  him 
short  weight,  I  '11  bet  anything  1 

I  have  reserved  my  pleasantest  word  for  the  last. 
It  is  touching  the  Captain.  The  Captain  is  still  hale 
and  rosy,  and  if  he  does  n't  relate  his  exploit  in  the 
war  of  1812  as  spiritedly  as  he  used  to,  he  makes 
up  by  relating  it  more  frequently  and  telling  it  dif- 
ferently every  time  !  He  passes  his  winters  in  New 
York  and  his  summers  in  the  Nutter  House,  which 
threatens  to  prove  a  hard  nut  for  the  destructive  gen- 
tleman with  the  scythe  and  the  hour-glass,  for  the 
seaward  gable  has  not  yielded  a  clapboard  to  the  east- 
wind  these  twenty  years.  The  Captain  has  now  be- 
come the  Oldest  Inhabitant  in  Eivermouth,  and  so  I 
don't  laugh  at  the  Oldest  Inhabitant  any  more,  but 
pray  in  my  heart  that  he  may  occupy  the  post  of 
honor  for  half  a  century  to  come  ! 

So  ends  the  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy,  —  but  not  such  a 
very  bad  boy,  as  I  told  you  to  begin  with. 


